


The Contingency Plan

by ChunkMonk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Falling In Love, Guardian John, John is bi, Kinda Cracky, Mycroft is concerned, Probably Out of Character At Times But Its AU So I Dont Care, Sherlock and Sally actually get along, Sherlock is a bad boy, Sherlock is gay, Slow Build, Stan Culture, celebrity Sherlock, famous sherlock, fun with fandoms, fun with media, popstar Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChunkMonk/pseuds/ChunkMonk
Summary: Sherlock is an ex boy-bander gone solo who is on top of the world, or he would be if it wasn't for all that nasty press. But that's what bad behavior will get you, isn't it? The rumors have gone too far, and Mycroft has had enough. He worries about Sherlock--constantly--and now it's time to bring someone in to make sure Sherlock walks the straight and narrow and maybe gets that pesky follow up album done.





	1. How Do You Solve a Problem Like Sherlock?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first, multi chaptered fanfic for the Sherlock fandom. I had posted but deleted a prior attempt at another story that just... wasn't speaking to me. This, however, did. I have several chapters already written, the whole first half, and then I will work on the rest. I am in love with so many of the great AU's in the fandom where Sherlock and/or John are famous in some capacity, and have always wanted to write my own little piece. I consider this a love letter to my MANY years spent in fandom for a singer, so a lot of this is pulled from not only my arse but personal experience! Not a Brit, but tried to make it feel somewhat legit, and no beta. All mistakes are mine. Just go with it, use your imagination, and if it's not for you then don't leave a dick comment LOL. Enjoy =)

 

 

The television clicked on, flooding the dark room with light and sound. Mycroft sank back into the leather arm chair with a grimace on his weary face, steadying himself mentally as the theme song he knew all too well began to play. He took a pull of the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler, needing the warm oblivion of alcohol more than ever. Considering the situation at hand though, it was quite ironic to be drowning his sorrows in booze, seeing as how it was the cause of such sorrows. He had gotten word of the incident only a few hours ago, mercifully given a slight window of time to process and plan for the fall out, and he had used those few hours wisely. A few phone calls and emails had been sent, warning those in the 'need to know' camp that a storm was brewing and to prepare. At the rate things were going lately he was going to get an ulcer.

Ah, who the hell was he kidding. He was going to get _another_ ulcer.

_"Hello and welcome to Entertainment Tonight."_

Mycroft took note of the conventionally attractive Hollywood blonde who was seated behind a clear desk, staring seriously into the camera as if she was about to impart some legitimate breaking news about war torn Syria or blow the Trump-Russian collusion scandal wide open, instead of what she was there to do.

_"Our top story tonight is more troubling behavior from golden child Sherlock Holmes. The drinking. The partying. Rumors of hard drugs. Where did it all go so wrong for this fresh faced young lad from London? And how much fame is too much, too young?"_

A series of images flickered across the screen behind the unnecessarily dramatic voice over, and it took all his strength not to turn away from the screen in disgust. Clips of a younger Sherlock, about sixteen, all bright eyes and dark floppy curls, looking impossibly innocent and smiling lopsided grins in front of seas of screaming and crying teen girls, were interspersed with pictures of an older, harder Sherlock. The hair was still floppy, the girls were still there, but this time they were on his lap, scantily dressed and taking shots, all while he smirked at the camera as if to say, 'I dare you'. And the light was completely gone from his eyes.

Mycroft scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed in defeat. He had tried so hard for so long to keep his little brother safe, to keep him on the path away from this sort of thing, and it all had come to nothing. Downing the last of his bourbon to steady his nerves, he changed over to the next station and awaited the sound of the voice he'd come to hate most in the world.

 _"Recognize that face being shoved into the pavement like the stub of an old cigarette?!"_ A high pitched, almost cartoonish male voice asked in a mocking way over the dim mobile phone footage of two hulking guys, the words "SECURITY" emblazoned upon their backs in bold white block lettering, as they held a much smaller figure down onto a dirty sidewalk. _"Why that's Sherlock Holmes! International singing sensation and heartthrob to millions of teenage girls..."_ The footage of the altercation cut away to show a black man in dreads smirking to a room full of millennial types as they smirked back at him. " _...And to some of their moms."_ He sniggered as an aside, and the whole room full of sycophants chuckled in agreement while their leader, a white man hanging over the edge of a half wall, nodded his head in agreement. God, Mycroft hated all these nameless guttersnipes. He didn't bother to learn who they were--he wouldn't give them the satisfaction--but he had been dealing with their ilk for years. So sick, to take such obvious enjoyment from the downfall of others, and this show was the worst of the worst.

 _"But lately this ex boy bander has turned into a drunken brawler!"_ The voice over started up again, and the show cut back to yet more mobile footage, obviously taken a few minutes earlier, as the brawler in question, barely visible in the crowd of late night revelers who were spilled out in front of what looked like a night club, waved his arms wildly at someone off camera. _"Don't worry if you can't afford a ticket to see his latest tour, just plant yourself outside any West Hollywood club and the show is free!"_

Mycroft groaned and turned off the television before he was tempted to throw his glass straight into the screen. His mobile chimed and he looked down to see it filled with a whole list of twitter alerts from the litany of entertainment accounts he was forced to follow. Usually he would leave the monitoring of such things to Sherlock's publicist, but as of late, he found it was sometimes the only way to have any idea what antics Sherlock was up to. His little brother was often incommunicado, and L.A.--unlike London--was sadly devoid of CCTV and its helpful snooping applications.

 **@accesshollywood** #breaking is **@SHolmes** an ex boy bander gone bad? His #shocking spiral continues with more outrageous behavior!!

He scrolled through them, agitated, but they were all in a similar vein. What had gone wrong? Was Sherlock ok? Was this his Britney style breakdown? A cry for help? Would he shave his head next? Mycroft snorted--the image of Sherlock parting with his glorious curls, the ones he was obnoxiously vain about--was hilarious. His phone chimed a text alert and he scrolled down to see a new message from his assistant.

 **Anthea** : Just got off the phone with Jeanine. She will do the best she can to bury this press wise but says the only way to truly fix this is an intervention. Or an asteroid. To obliterate the earth. Other than that, just hope for a bigger story to blow this off the front page.

For the first time in ages he felt his lips tug into a genuine smile. Thank God for Anthea, his rock. Unfortunately, it was a brief affair, as the next text to pop up turned his face to stone. Shit, he thought, he probably should have put him on the 'need to know' list as well. Finding out from the telly probably hadn't been good for his blood pressure.

 **Greg:** I just saw TMZ. What the fuck is going on over there Mycroft!?? You told me last month that you had it all under control? You promised me rehab or therapy or a swift kick to the ass. You promised me many things and it keeps happening!!!! You know how important this is. You know the amount of money riding on this. Fix this. Fix it now and fix it once and for all.

Something low and rotten roiled in his gut. He liked Greg, he respected him, and normally the man wasn't so callous--he loved Sherlock like a son and had been just as worried the past few months--but even nice men had their breaking points. Hastily he replied:

 **Mycroft:** I know. And trust me, it will be. This is my top concern. You know I worry about him. Constantly. This will be resolved. You have my word.

 **Greg:** It better be.

******

In the beginning Sherlock had been a peculiar child, quiet, socially awkward at times and prone to bouts of intense ennui that often manifested in saying quite cruel things and throwing epic tantrums, but all of that was before he found music. Afterwards, the worst behavior he had been capable of was staying up all hours, writing song after song and banging away on the grand piano his parents had bought especially for him. Or there were the days he would screech away on his violin, his green eyes manic, as he proclaimed he was writing the world's greatest symphony, a symphony that would never come to fruition as, such was the case, his mind would eventually be taken up with some other endeavor and the whole thing would be forgotten. But that was alright, that was more than fine. Sherlock's childish flights of fancy were his way of "quieting his brain" or however he liked to put it at the time. Sherlock had always possessed an intelligence and an energy that, if left unchecked, could surely run roughshod over everyone and everything, but it had always been contained. Controlled. His parents had once called music a godsend when they had seen how Sherlock had taken to it, how his chaotic mind had found refuge in simple things like melody and harmony and musical scales and singing.... oh the singing was beautiful.

But one day it just didn't seem to be enough anymore.

Five months prior Sherlock had been on top of the world. He had just released his much-anticipated solo album and was riding high on top of a mountain of commercial and critical success. He had gone through so much by that point; the acrimonious split from his old manager, the barely concealed bitterness and jealousy of his ex-band mates, and the seemingly insurmountable expectations placed upon him to become the 'next Justin Timberlake' or next 'Harry Styles'. But he had come out of all that victorious and insanely successful and happy. Or so Mycroft had thought. But looking back at it now, the signs were all there that the slow unraveling of the careful world of Sherlock Holmes had begun shortly after his first album.

The first the noticeable change was the smoking. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't been known to bum a ciggie here and there, even so much as stealing them from Mummy when he was a mere child, but he had turned into something of a chain-smoker overnight, even though it was hell on the voice. Suddenly he became moodier, sullen, and snappish, throwing strops the likes of which hadn't been seen since he was a child. Since before he'd found solace in music. Then there was the partying, the endless clubbing and late nights carousing with unseemly characters and hangers on. Bratty behavior, wild nights, and unprofessional public appearances soon had him splashed upon the front page of every trashy tabloid from LA to Tokyo, and late night comedians had sensed the chum in the water at this man child living the life of a debauched rock star. In a matter of months Sherlock had gone from the biggest popstar on the planet to the biggest joke on the planet.

And now there were drunken brawls outside nightclubs and the nagging whispers that he had started to dabble in substances harder than nicotine and booze. Mycroft had had enough; his little brother would not become a statistic. Not on his watch.

Mycroft was different from his brother in many ways; he was considerably older, his hair a great deal thinner, and he had no performing talent to speak of, but he was like Sherlock in that he never did anything by halves. While his brother used his prodigious talents--a powerful tenor voice that silenced even the harshest of critics and an innate musical mastery that few of his peers could ever hope to achieve--to ascend to the top strata of the music world in only five years, Mycroft had used his innate talents to ascend on the other side of the spectrum. From graduating secondary school early, to top of his class at Cambridge, to being the youngest person to hold a position of great importance in the British government, to now managing one of the biggest stars in the world, he too was used to success and getting what he wanted. And the only thing he wanted was for his brother to be clean, happy and healthy.

This cliche fall from grace, it was all textbook--something from an E! True Hollywood Story--and Mycroft could have choked on the irony of Sherlock being so pedestrian. Surely, he would come to his senses if he could just see how boring this all was, and Sherlock abhorred anything boring.

If Sherlock refused to come to his senses, then he had another idea in mind. A contingency plan of sorts. One that he had put off implementing for far, far too long. And if that didn't work, well, then he would just have to sit back and hope for that asteroid.

***

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening and the static crackled in his ear as he strode down the darkened hallway of his house, searching for a spot where the connection wouldn't be as shoddy, which was one of the main drawbacks when he visited his country home.

"Did you hear what I said Sherlock?" Mycroft repeated, trying his best not to raise his voice; snapping at his brother now would only lead to nothing but a fruitless argument full of vicious insults and expletives, or else he would clam up entirely and say nothing. No, it was better to hold one's tongue, to be firm, but not accusatory. "The facts are as follows. You are contractually obligated to Capitol Records for another two albums. Considering the success of your previous album it is highly unlikely that they will let you out of your contract. They have been waiting on you to get your act together and finish your follow up, and as Greg has so generously reminded me over and over again, you are running out of time before they decide to pursue this in a manner that would be.... unfortunate."

"So, let them then." A deep, haughty voice replied from the other line. "Let them unleash the hounds of hell upon me for all I care." He sniffed.

"So needlessly dramatic, brother mine." Mycroft sighed. "While your attempts to 'stick it to the man' as you like to call it are... amusing... they are also not realistic. So far, they have been more than patient, but you do not want the full brunt of their legal team on you."

"This is exactly why I want to quit!" Sherlock exploded, his voice taking on that needy, desperate quality it did right before he took a nosedive and deigned not to speak to anyone for a day or two. "The label doesn't care what I want. Greg doesn't care what I want, and you certainly don't care what I want! All I am is a product! A commodity to be bought and traded and I've had enough!'

Mycroft took a deep breath; the last bit of that outburst had stung--if anyone, anyone on this godforsaken planet cared what Sherlock Holmes wanted, it was Mycroft, and he had spent the last few months worrying himself into a state over it. However, he was also keenly aware that they lived in a world that existed beyond what Sherlock wanted, and that compromises needed to be made.

"Sherlock, you know that's patently false. I assure you I have nothing but your best interests at heart. However, you have been remiss as of late in actually telling me what those things you want actually are." Mycroft drummed his fingers along the hall window, wet with condensation. He looked out over his well manicured lawn, still in the moonlight. Such serenity was the only thing keeping him from snapping harshly and escalating an already precarious situation. "Surely you didn't think that after all this time, after everything, that calling me up in a snit and saying you wish to quit the business is something I could have anticipated? Music is your life.... it's always been. I simply do not understand."

There was a beat before Sherlock spoke again, and his voice was small. Defeated. "You wouldn't understand."

"Then help me understand Sherlock."

"I'm unhappy."

And there it was. Simple, and painfully blunt. It was the first time Sherlock had so much as voiced an inkling of what was swirling around in that great big brain of his. It didn't take a genius to see he was unhappy, but just him admitting it out loud seemed like a monumental step. He needed to proceed carefully here, lest he send his brother skittering away like a frightened woodland creature.

"And why is that brother mine?" He asked gently.

"You've always known how it was Mycroft. How it is. Or well, how it used to be. It was music, always music that calmed the swirling in my head. Whenever my thoughts were barreling down on me, speeding like a freight train on the tracks, it was always music that saved me. But it doesn't anymore." His voice was strangled, and the words spilled out of him with all the ferocity of a dam breaking. "I'm not happy with the music they've brought me so far. It's inauthentic. Generic. It says nothing and means even less. It's boring and I am bored and my head just...I can't take it anymore. It used to be so quiet." There was a pause in which it sounded as if Sherlock had bit back a sob. "But now it's just so...loud."

Mycroft couldn't begin to understand the things that went on inside an artistic mind, let alone one gifted with the maddening genius that was Sherlock, but he endeavored to try. "Is this loudness the catalyst for your change in behavior?"

There was nothing but silence on the other line.

"If the music isn't speaking to you, if you feel it isn't what you want, well there are things we can do to change that without throwing in the towel. The label has expressed no issue with exploring different producers and the A&R guys are more than willing to..."

Sherlock cut him off with a scoff. "The label has always been nothing but full of incompetent fools lacking vision who stifle creativity at every turn."

"The label wants to solve this Sherlock. You know they just want what's best for your career and they've assured me they support you one hundred percent in getting past all of this and moving forward."

Sherlock's voice was bitter as he interrupted. "You know that's not true though. There are other things they aren't exactly supportive of." There was an audible gulp.

Oh. Oh, well yes. Mycroft knew very well indeed what they weren't supportive of; he knew the industry by now and he knew it well. It had never been mentioned, and frankly Mycroft didn't think that Sherlock ever would, but he had suspected it for years. It was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to give voice to it specifically, that was perhaps a bit too much to expect at this point, but just the implication of it was enough.

"Well then they are fools." Mycroft said with all the conviction he felt, as he paced up and down the hall. Oh, the aggravation caused by small minds. The bane of his existence. Then, with a softer edge to his voice he added. "But it is 2017 and things in the entertainment industry have changed considerably in the last few years. I am sure Greg would have no issues if you wished to tell him... what was on your mind. You know he's not like the others."

He left it at that, but he was certain his meaning was clear, and when it was obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to express more about the issue, he changed topics. "So, you're home then? Or are you still locked up in the clink, wasting your one phone call on me?"

There was an affronted scoff from the other line, but the feeling of the conversation had shifted to something lighter. "Regardless of what the tabloids are reporting I was not arrested. I was simply detained in the so called 'drunk tank' alongside the more colorful characters of Los Angeles, until I sobered up. I made friends with a homeless drunkard named Barry and a belligerent drag queen named Coco Bang Bang."

"Charming."

"Quite."

"Well, I am currently at the country home, but I have another week or so of business to finish in London before I return to L.A. We need to have a serious discussion about your future, as well as meet with the label and other various things when I get back. Can I trust you to be on your best behavior until I return? Will you have mercy on me and my Google alerts?"

"You can always trust me big brother."

Mycroft could almost see the sarcastic smirk that was sure to be on his face at that very moment. He didn't trust him for one bloody second, but thankfully that's what his contingency plan was for.


	2. Interlude: Billboard

**Billboard Exclusive: Is Anybody Holmes? The Rise And (Possible) Fall of A Pop Star.**

1/10/2017 by Kitty Riley

 

I am sitting here in a quaint little coffee shop in Brooklyn, NY, the kind of place that hipsters flock to by the dozens, with its kitsch and it's ecofriendly free trade coffee and random boxes of obscure vinyl records placed here and there for the caffeine addicts to flip through at their leisure, waiting for Greg Lestrade, CEO of Capitol Records to breeze through the door at any moment. He's running a bit behind schedule, but such is the life when one is as incredibly busy as he is, and word from the label is he's out meeting with a perspective new artist in the area, hence our unusual meeting location. Whoever he's meeting must be incredibly lucky, as it takes almost an act of God himself to move this very important man from his vaulted tower, and into the world of us plebeians. Rumor has it, the last time he went in person to check out a potential artist signing was for the British boyband Deduction, and we all know how that turned out.

Whether you loved or hated them and their slick, yet undeniably catchy pop hooks, Deduction was undoubtedly one of Lestrade's more brilliant moves in his past twenty years of tenure at Capitol, and one of the more successful boybands in their five-year run. The four-member group had a meteoric rise to fame, notching no less than three number one albums, two number one singles on the Billboard Hot 100, five top ten singles, and a dozen other successful entries on various Billboard charts, not to mention a Grammy win for Best New Artist, three American Music Awards, two VMA's, and a slew of smash international singles and awards.

While all of the group's members, Sebastian Moran, Sebastian Wilkes and Jim Moriarty, were talented in their own rights, each co-writing and playing instruments on most of the tracks, it was their youngest member, Sherlock Holmes, who would come to outshine them all. With his stunning voice and movie star good looks, Sherlock rose to be 'the face' of Deduction, spurring rumors of tension and infighting that ultimately added to the demise of the group.

Shortly after the group disbanded, Sherlock, only 19 at the time, changed management (keeping it all in the family he hired his elder brother Mycroft Holmes) and launched a massively successful solo career, with a debut album spawning several top ten hits, two number ones, and a slew of Grammy nominations, with two wins for Song of The Year and Pop Vocal of The Year. There was no question that Sherlock Holmes was riding high and poised to go even higher. The sky was the limit for this talented young man, however the incidents of the last few months--drinking, fighting and other shockingly bad behavior--have many in the industry wondering if Sherlock is nothing but a shooting star, flaming out at only 22 years old.

As I ponder this and sip my overpriced Chai latte, Greg Lestrade finally graces me with his presence, and I can't help feeling my heart flutter a bit. He's a sickeningly gorgeous man--a silver fox in the best way--and he exudes not only power but warmth, and there's a fierce intelligence in those brown eyes. He orders himself a coffee, black, and we make our introductions and finally get down to business.

 

**Sherlock Holmes. His big solo debut two years ago brought him to a whole new level. Everyone has been eagerly anticipating his follow up. Is there more pressure now to top the success of his debut?**

I can't say that there is more pressure to go beyond the success of '221'. While as a label we would love to reach an even wider audience for his music, I think at this point there is more pressure to go farther creatively. Sherlock is the type of artist that pushes himself to explore new avenues sonically, and the label is behind that 100%.

 

**You oversaw signing Deduction to Capitol. So, some might say you in actuality "discovered" Sherlock.**

Well, while it is true that I signed Deduction to a multi album deal, I can't lay claim to have discovered any of them. That honor goes to Charles Augustus Magnussen, the man who scoured the UK to find the young, untested talent needed to form a new boyband. While the two of us have had our differences through the years, without his keen eye and ear the world have been deprived of a lot of great music. I will say though, that with a talent like Sherlock's, if he wouldn't have been discovered back then, I think he would have eventually. You can't keep a once in a lifetime talent like his down.

 

**There's been some industry rumbling lately that his as of yet untitled follow up has been facing delays? Is there any news on that front on what we can expect and when we can expect it?**

Well it's great to know that the demand is there (laughs). That's always heartening. But no, he was in the studio recently, finishing up a few tracks, and all I can say is that it's coming along nicely. The material is fantastic, I can tell you that. There's some real quality stuff that will just blow you away once you get to hear it, which could be sooner rather than later. Despite all the noise lately in the press, he is on schedule recording wise, and we are hoping for a Black Friday release. But like anything in this industry, things are constantly in a state of flux.

 

**Speaking of things being in a 'state of flux', I would be lax if I didn't touch on the elephant in the room. What do you have to say about his current personal troubles? Is this nothing more than rock star behavior blown out of proportion or something more worrisome? There have been rumors of an impending break down and of serious drug use.**

Ah, yes. To be honest I am glad we are discussing this because the reports of his behavior over the last few months seem to have gotten out of hand. I've known Sherlock since he was 15, and he's a good kid. Well, now he's a man--my how time flies--but it still holds true. I can't imagine what it's like living under a microscope though, where everything you do is observed and picked apart and judged, and have there been some incidents that weren't so great? Yea of course. But look, there's a difference here between blowing off a little steam and a full on break down, and I can assure you that's not the case. A few out of control nights, who hasn't had that (laughs) in their lives? As for rumors of drugs, no. There's no way. Like I said, I've known him forever and I know how much he values his talent. I know this all sounds like some sort of PR blow off but there's no way Sherlock would be risking his future, and his love of music, so recklessly.

 

**Thanks for the time today. I know you're an incredibly busy man. Any last things you wish to leave us with?**

Yeah, just to say don't always believe what you read in the gossip rags, and keep an eye out for some new music, which is really what we're all here for, no? Trust me you will not be disappointed.

 

**Thanks once again, it was truly a pleasure.**

The pleasure was all mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty in this universe writes fun music fluff pieces cause I can!


	3. John

The clock was ticking at an agonizingly slow pace, and John stared at it as if willing it to defy the laws of space and time and go faster, simply because he wanted it to. The whole dance reminded him of his days in primary school, of a classroom full of restless children, wiggling in their seats as they waited for the bell that sounded their freedom. As an adult, he was experiencing a new kind of imprisonment, but an imprisonment nonetheless.

He tore his eyes away from the wall where he had briefly zoned out for a moment, and turned his attention back to the computer and began typing as quickly as his two finger hen-pecking would allow. He had a stack of open encounters to close, ones that had been sitting unsigned since the beginning of the month, and the chairman of the department had been on a rampage lately, threatening bodily harm if their documentation wasn't in, and any open charts weren't closed by the end of the month. Chipping away at his backlog had taken up most of his afternoon, and the thrill of documenting every incidence of tonsillitis, stomach pain, or cutaneous abscess he'd treated had started to lose it's magic.

By the time he'd realized he'd spent more than five minutes staring at the blinking cursor on the screen, not typing anything and trying to recall if this was the patient who had IBS or gastroesophageal reflux, and realized he was too arsed to look in the chart to see, he thought it best to call it a day. His brain was fried and it was time to get the hell out of there before he compromised someone's medical history integrity. Or something like that. Mostly he needed some fresh air and something greasy in his stomach that would carry him into the evening and a well-earned night of vegging on the sofa and watching Bake Off on Netflix.

With all the eagerness of one of those primary school kids loosening their school ties, or shucking their school blazers, he removed his white coat, gathered his belongings, and bid the nurses at the station a good evening. They barely looked up from the desk, but nodded in a perfunctory way, and John was out of there and onto the pavement outside of St. Bart's in record time.

The evening air was bitterly cold, whipping into his face, and he flipped his collar up, shrinking into the coat as much as he could, like some sort of turtle. The tube ride home, which normally was nothing but an overcrowded hassle that set his teeth on edge, was instead a warm respite from the freezing temperatures, and managing to score an actual seat didn't hurt either. By the time he'd gotten off at his stop, picked up a steaming bag of curry take-a-away from the only decent joint nearby, and made it back to his dreary bedsit, he could feel every single hour of his twelve-hour long day, throbbing in his lower back, feet and head.

This was not how it was supposed to be, he thought to himself, as he dumped his keys into the bowl on the rickety table next to his door, and toed off his shoes. He was not supposed to be slaving away, day after day, stuck in the monotony of treating minor ailments and being buried in paper work and professional bullshit. He loved being a doctor--it had been his dream since he was a child--but somehow his dreams never seemed to include this. He'd dreamt of excitement and adventure. He'd dreamt of feeling the blood pumping through his veins as he stopped a man from bleeding out, or brought a man back from the brink. In retrospect, maybe he had had a somewhat romanticized, juvenile view of the medical profession when he'd entered into it, but for a brief shining moment that's exactly how it was. The excitement, the danger, the thrilling highs, and the equally thrilling lows (and what that said about John himself, he didn't really wish to examine).

But then he had been shot in the shoulder, his career as a trauma surgeon in RAMC effectively ended by a bullet, a tremor, and an honorable discharge, and no number of medals or commendations could soften the blow that every minute, every second, his whole being ached for the life he used to live. And so, every day he had the same routine--he got up, went to work, doctored to his patients in a competent way--and came back home to wonder where it all went wrong and whether it was even worth it to go on.

With a groan and the pop of several joints, he flopped onto the sofa and dug into his food, mindlessly shoving it into his mouth. Some days were worse than others; some days he felt almost normal, like he could be ok and he could make this work and be content, but the majority of time, such as tonight, he felt such emptiness inside him that he couldn't even enjoy simple pleasures like a good meal.

With his belly full and the Bake Off officially baked off, he dragged himself to the bathroom, stripped out of his clothes and turned on the shower. He went through the motions without a second thought, his muscle memory taking the lead as the numbness spread and his head ached even more. While he waited for the water to turn warm (the pipes were old as England in his miserable building, and it took a good five minutes or so to get anything close to hot water) he brushed his teeth and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His blue eyes were tired, the bags under them more pronounced by his long day and salty dinner, and his short hair, in the process of growing out of a strict military style cut, stuck up at odd angles from where it had been pressed against the back of the sofa. He thought he looked older than his thirty years--there's more gray threaded through his blonde hair than ever before and the smile lines at the corner of his eyes are a bit deeper, which is ironic seeing as how he's barely had a reason to smile these last few months--and he's lost some of the muscle tone from his service days through his chest and arms, but overall, it could be worse. He still looked damn good, considering, and it's not like he'd ever hurt in that department; both women and men had always found him attractive.

When the mirror started to fog he knew that the shower was ready, and he stepped under the spray, delighting in the way the water beat down onto his back, easing the aches in his body that he was too young to have, and loosening the tight scar tissue on his scarred shoulder. He dunked his head under the spout, scrubbing harshly into his hair with a handful of shampoo and moaned at how good it felt. His scalp has always been sensitive, and while he's normally been too depressed to feel much of any sexual desire lately, tonight it's as if his follicles have a direct line to his cock, and the stimulation sends sparks down his spine, making it twitch to say 'hello, you've ignored me for far too long'.

When John had been discharged, his inappropriate (and secret) relationship with his CO Major James Sholto had come to an abrupt and painful ending. "It could never work. It would be better for both of us to part as friends." he had said, as John had held back desperate tears. He had loved James more than anyone before; he was the first man he had ever had more than an idle sexual attraction to, and the loss of it, on top of everything else, was a knife twist to the gut. When he'd returned to London he hadn't had the energy to try dating again, and besides a few one-night stands (each with varying degrees of satisfaction), he was living quite the celibate existence. However, tonight his libido had awoken from the dead, and he cupped himself, giving himself a few experimental tugs.

Up and down, his hand slick with body wash, he felt himself grow firmer under his ministrations. God, it had been so long, and he forgot how good it felt. He tried to picture something, anything to get his engine running even faster, but his mind remained blank. He didn't need the extra stimulation though, for only after a few embarrassingly short minutes, he felt his lower abdomen tighten and he was coming, his legs almost buckling from the sheer pleasure. For a brief moment his mind was bliss, his body singing, and he felt as if he could take on the world.

But then it all faded away, eaten up by the scourge of his depression, and he turned off the shower with a resigned sigh.

***

His tea had gone cold by the time he'd managed to send another text to Harry. He'd been waiting at the cafe for her for over an hour now, but he wasn't going to wait any longer now that it was clear she wasn't going to show up. Whether she was intentionally blowing him off, had simply just forgotten, or was drowning in the bottom of a bottle somewhere, too pissed to care, he didn't know, but he flipped open his phone and shot off an angry text.

 **John:** Are you alive? I waited for you at Cafe Marigold for an hour but no show and no reply to my previous text. If you're on your way don't bother. I'm leaving.

It was always like this with Harry, and their relationship was forever set as John, the responsible older brother, picking up the messes and forgiving the excesses of his train wreck of an alcoholic younger sister. Since youth the two had been like night and day, but their relationship had been less contentious, just simple childish arguments and such. But as the pull of booze had started to tear Harry apart, things got a lot more complicated. His parents, God rest their souls, had stressed to him over the years the importance of maintaining a good relationship with his troubled sibling, for they weren't going to be around forever, and one day it would be just the two of them. Those days were upon them now, and John tried all he could to keep something of a relationship with Harry, while she seemed less than willing. It wasn't that they didn't get along--John had learned long ago not to needle her about her drinking, for she would only seek help when she wanted to--but Harry simply didn't see him as a priority in her life. John was nothing more than a distraction, a relic from a time and a life she wanted to forget.

He drained the last of his tea, slamming the cup down into the saucer with a bit more force than necessary, and was fully prepared to gather his coat and leave, glancing out the window towards the gray storm clouds headed their way (of course it would be threatening to rain when he hadn't brought an umbrella with him. Of course.) when he heard a soft clearing of the throat behind him.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

John looked over his shoulder to see a stunningly beautiful woman, her light brown hair hanging in a straight curtain to her shoulders, and a cream-colored pashmina wrapped around her delicate frame. She looked like one of those high-class women he never truly had the balls to chat up. Surely, she wasn't chatting him up, was she? He took a surreptitious look around--the cafe was rather crowded--maybe she just needed the extra chair at his table?

"Uh yeah, sure no one's using it. Go right ahead." He smiled.

"Thank you."

To his utter surprise, she sat down across from him, and shot him a dazzling smile. "I've been watching you for a while now. You looked rather cross and I was a bit nervous to approach you but, I saw you were about to leave and I knew I couldn't miss my chance." She bit her lip, an overtly flirtatious move, and John felt a heat swell across his cheeks. This was really happening, wasn't it? Maybe it was no coincidence that his libido had returned mere days before he got pulled by one of the prettiest women he'd ever met.

"I'm glad you didn't let me leave. That definitely would have been a tragedy. A right tragedy indeed." He smiled his best 'Captain Watson' smile, roguish and utterly charming, the kind that had gotten him laid by countless men and women through the years, and settled back into his seat. Suddenly he was a lot less angry that Harry had stood him up. "John Watson. Doctor John Watson." He corrected, deciding to go with the title Doctor. While he found a lot of women (and men) were turned on by the whole Captain angle, the Doctor angle worked even better.

The woman merely looked at him; she said nothing in reply, and while the smile still played on her lips, her eyes, which at first had been checking him out, now were more sizing him up in a distinctly non-sexual way. He felt as if he'd gone from being flirted with to being inspected for some sort of deficiency within a matter of seconds. It was.... unnerving.

"And you would be?" John asked, and her eyes narrowed before flicking down to a Blackberry in her hand, and she began quietly typing away. Ok this was getting weird now.

"Tell me Doctor Watson, what do you think of Los Angeles?" The woman asked, her tone bored as she continued typing away. "Do you like sunshine? Beaches?"

John twiddled the handle of the teacup in his fingers. "Uh, I love the _Beach Boys_. Pet Sounds...one of the greatest albums of all time. But L.A? Why do you ask? Isn't it a bit early to be talking mini break? I mean, we just met. I was thinking dinner first?" He gave her another one of his charming smiles, but she simply looked up at him without a hint of the warmth he'd seen in her before. In fact, she looked like a completely different woman. One who was decidedly not impressed with him. Quickly he changed tack. "I, uh, don't really think L.A is my kinda scene. As for the sunshine.... after serving in Afghanistan I'm not sure if I miss the endless sun, or I never want to see it again."

After a few moments of quiet reflection, she spoke. "A few months ago, you put in an application to work with V.I.P Security Solutions, looking for part-time employment as a bodyguard, but you were declined because of your slight limp, your PTSD following your traumatic wound in the service, and your depressive and suicidal tendencies."

"Woah, woah, woah." John felt as if someone had wrapped their hands around his throat and cut off his windpipe. Who the hell was this woman and how the hell did she know any of that? Doing his best to remember the techniques his therapist had taught him to avoid panic attacks, he took a deep breath and dug his fingertips into his thigh. His left hand, which had been still all day, began a slight tremble. "Who the hell are you and what do you want?" He all but growled.

"I think you might want to come with me Doctor Watson." She said coolly, not at all rattled by his threatening voice. The same voice that had made grown men quake on the battlefield as he barked out orders. She flicked her gaze out the window, and John followed its path to a black sedan idling at the curb, almost obscured by rain that was now pouring down.

"I think not. Not until you tell me what the hell this is. Is this some sort of threat? Do I exactly have a choice here?"

She didn't reply, but the answer was clear that no, he did not.

"Just let me get this straight. If I go with you, this is not going to end up with us having mind blowing sex?"

She simply quirked her brow and pursed her lips.

"Well can you at least promise I won't end up lying dead in a skip somewhere?" John shot out, exasperated. For all intents and purposes, he should be flaming mad by now--and he was--but there was also a tingling thrill of anticipation coursing through him. Excitement. Danger. He hadn't experienced this feeling since Afghanistan. His left hand was completely still on his thigh.

"Yes, Doctor Watson, I promise that no harm will come to you. You're very important."

"Fine. I'll go. But before I take one damn step, you will tell me your name."

She seemed to consider this for a moment, before nodding in assent. She smiled, amused, and pocketed her phone, standing up with purpose. "My name is Anthea."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I work at a hospital. It's such a chore to get doctors to close their encounters!! I feel ya John.


	4. Interlude: Tabloids

**US Weekly**

**Instagram Model Sally Donovan Shares Racy Photo of Her and Sherlock Holmes Canoodling. "They're An Item" Sources Say.**

By Leanne Schrippa 5 hours ago

 

Tonight, the social media-sphere was set abuzz by candid snaps of popstar Sherlock Holmes in what looks like to be a heated clinch, with backup dancer and Instagram model, Sally Donovan. The 20-year-old beauty, whose followers have reached one million since joining Sherlock's last world tour, posted a pic Saturday of herself, sitting on Sherlock's lap, in an almost kiss while looking into the camera. While it looks like all fun and games, sources say that the two have grown close, and their flirty behavior has grown into much more. Despite the reports of Sherlock's intense partying, and stories of his womanizing ways, sources say that the two are in a committed relationship and are "quite happy". While their couple hood is new, they aren't looking to put it under public scrutiny at this moment by making it official. It looks to us though, by these photos, that the two won't be able to keep their little love affair a secret for much longer!

 

 

**THE NATIONAL INQUIRER**

**OUT OF CONTROL!**

**SHERLOCK HOLMES ON A ROAD TO RUIN**

Club goers see famed popstar snorting coke in the bathroom

 

Last weekend, international popstar Sherlock Holmes, was spotted inside the men's bathroom stall of famed L.A. hotspot The Viper Room, doing what witnesses said were several lines of cocaine alongside a group of his friends. A source close to us has released these following photos from inside the club, and while the figures can be clearly seen bending over what appears to be a white substance, no one's face is clearly visible, and Sherlock's camp vehemently denies that it was him, even though social media is flooded with tons of photographic evidence showing that Sherlock was at The Viper Room on the night in question.

The last few months have been quite the downward spiral for the once squeaky-clean Brit. Days and nights of endless partying, drinking, and now what looks to be drug abuse, have ended up with several cancellations of appearances, several brawls, and rumors that there is trouble with the label concerning his follow up album.

We reached out to fellow Deception bandmate Jim Moriarty (who is currently in the process of writing and recording his own solo album) on his thoughts about his troubled colleague.

"Sherlock always had a bright mind and an immense gift for music. But just like a lot of the greats, he's also plagued with a darkness inside. Unfortunately, he's not equipped to deal with the darkness, and this is what happens. I always suspected this weakness of his would end with his downfall. I've told everyone I know to watch out for that one. He's brilliant, for sure, but he's also weak, and one day he will surely join the '27 club'. Looks like I was a little bit early on that by a few years, eh (laughs)?"

Well, Moriarty was never one to mince words, was he? Still though, ouch. Cold. Guess the rumors are true, and the bad blood from the band's tumultuous break up still exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Moriarty in this universe would just throw a lot of catty shit into the press and try and start a beef with Sherlock since he's never going to be the Timberlake of Deduction lmao


	5. The Contingency Plan

The house was imposing, reeking of old money, the kind that was so old they had simply stopped calling it money and just called it 'wealth'. Calling it a house was not even accurate; it was more like a country estate from a Merchant Ivory film, all ivy-covered columns and forbidden love affairs. John would have killed to take a better look at his surroundings, for it wasn't every day that a beautiful, and possibly criminal, woman stole you away from the mundanity of your day and into something a bit more clandestine, but with the way he had to scurry to keep up with her, sightseeing was not on the agenda.

All John had been able to pry from the woman named Anthea, was that he was here to meet someone for "career advancement", but unless he had somehow fumbled his way into the plot of a Bond film, and they needed a general practitioner with a slight tremor for a top-secret mission, he wasn't sure what kind of legitimate employer would conduct business like this.

Unfortunately for John--and fortunately for them--this ticked all his boxes, and he could feel a pep in his step as he walked. This was probably a very, very bad idea.

At the end of a long hallway, Anthea opened a door and led him into a room that looked like a study; wing back chairs framed a beautiful fireplace, while heavy draperies blocked out any light from the windows, and the carved, floor to ceiling shelves were packed with books calling out to be touched. He could lose himself in here for good day or so, curled up by the fire with a good book and an even better drink.

"He'll be in shortly." Anthea said, somewhat ominously, before directing all her attention back to texting, and John was left to wonder... who?

 

***

After what felt like an insulting amount of time to be kept waiting, a man entered the room. John didn't know what he had been expecting, but if he had been whisked away to be recruited by some sort of Bond villain or head of a secret society, then this could definitely work. The man who gracefully crossed the room, taking not a spare moment to acknowledge John's presence, was the picture of upper crust perfection. He was tall, thin and sufficiently pale in that English way, wearing a bespoke suit, and his auburn hair rode farther back on his hairline that it used to, but he carried it well. When he finally looked up at him, John noticed his blue eyes, a bit small, and a prominent nose, and the overall effect made him appear hard, like a posh bird of prey, and probably older than his age.

After an awkward silence, a posh voice which fitted seamlessly with his appearance, bade John to take a seat. Wordlessly John obeyed the command, and a command it was. There was something about this man; his every fiber screamed power, of a man used to getting what he wanted with no questions asked. There was also something a little dark there too, lurking under the surface. Or maybe it was sadness? He found they often went hand in hand. John sat stiff backed in his chair, all senses on alert, and dared to make eye contact with the mystery man.

"Hello Doctor Watson. John. May I call you John?"

"Go right ahead. It's not like anyone here has cared about what I want." John shot an accusatory look over his shoulder, back at the woman who had more or less forced him here, lingering in the doorway. The man across from him raised his eyebrows in surprise--perhaps he'd been expecting someone more compliant--and inclined his head toward his assistant, lackey, or whoever she was, signaling that her presence was no longer needed.

"My assistant, Anthea. Though I expect you've already made your acquaintance."

"Yes. We exchanged names and favorite colors while she was telling me things about myself she shouldn't have known and forcing me to get into a strange car." John smirked.

The man did not look amused. "No one forced you to do anything Dr. Watson. She did not threaten you nor did she hold a gun to your back--"

"Well, no, but--"

"No Doctor Watson, you came because you--pardon the term-- _get off_ on danger. So here you are." The man leaned back in his chair, smiling a self-satisfied type of smile that John wanted to punch.

"Alright, you've got three seconds to tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you want." Reflexively his left hand curled into a fist, and he pumped it a few times, trying to steady the tremor that had ratcheted up a notch.

The man's eyes followed the motion, and while he remained collected on the outside, the tightness around his mouth, and the slightly flared nostrils told John that he was worried about a physical altercation. After a beat, he leaned forward.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I've brought you here to discuss a... business arrangement."

"So, is this about the thing your gorgeous and infuriatingly mute assistant mentioned? She said this had to do with 'career advancement'".

"Yes, it is, in a manner of speaking, a job. You will be compensated and such, though I imagine it's quite different from what you're currently doing. But it will make better use of your talents than simply being a low man on the totem pole at St. Bart's."

John ignored how once again a total stranger knew things about him, while he was still completely in the dark. If he was smart, he would have said no thank you and split--it was an incredibly dodgy situation--but he was hooked. Damn it, he did get off on danger.

"What exactly are you offering me here?"

"Are you familiar with Sherlock Holmes?"

John drew a blank. Should he know who this was? Was that some sort of important government official or power player? A member of the extended royal family? Those would be the types this Mycroft bloke would associate with for sure. In the end, the name meant nothing to him. "No, I can't say that I am. Sorry. Should I be?"

Once again Mycroft was staring at him; his eyes were like little blue vacuums, scouring over John's surface and sucking out whatever information he was seeking. It left him feeling utterly exposed. "No, I imagine you wouldn't know him, would you? He's a singer. Mostly popular with a younger audience. Quite well known."

"Any relation?"

"He's my younger brother, and my client. I currently manage him."

"And what does he sing?"

"Pop music." Mycroft spat, as if it was a curse word. Of course, he would, the man probably spent his days listening to Mozart and Brahms.

"Not really into what the kids are listening to." John chuckled. "My tastes run more to jazz, Motown, and prog rock bands from the seventies and eighties. I'm what you would call out of touch."

"I see." Mycroft fixed him with another unnerving stare (it was seriously impossible to decipher anything the man was thinking), before getting up and crossing the room, stopping at the far corner, and pressing his palms firmly into a section of the paneled wall that looked different from the rest. A few gentle pushes sent the section of wall swinging outwards, revealing a hidden cubby hole of sorts that housed a gorgeous bar, stacked with crystal tumblers, and bottles of liquor that probably belonged to Napoleon or something.

"Let me fill you in then."

As the door continued to swing farther open, John was met with even more to take in. The back of the wall which had been exposed, and a good expanse of the wall behind the bar, was dotted with shiny plaques and what looked like silver and gold records encased in thin glass. There was even a gold statuette on the edge of the bar and...

"Is that a Grammy!?" John choked out, astonished. He got up to take a closer look, and sure enough, the gold gramophone sat there, as if this was all totally normal. "Song of the Year.... _fuck off Mycroft_?" He read out loud, fingertips tracing over the inscription.

Mycroft grimaced. "One of my brothers many awards. He shipped it to me with a special message. Thought he was so clever with that."

"So when you say he's well known he's," John took it all in. Amazing. " _Well known_."

"Indeed. He's one of the most successful pop acts on the planet, and I'm not prone to hyperbole. I would give you a rundown of his accomplishments, but you can Wikipedia him yourself if you wish to know the particulars. I keep all his bric a brac that didn't make it to L.A tucked away here. I would display it better, but I find it clashes with the rest of my décor." Mycroft waggled his fingers dismissively over a silver statuette.

"Is that a Brit award? Damn, you were not joking were you."

"I think you'll find that I never joke John."

"Right." John stepped away from the display and began drumming his fingers against his thigh, restless. What the hell did Mycroft even want with him? Pop music? This was not exactly James Bond. It was more James Taylor. Ok, not the best comparison, but he was a good thirty to forty years behind when it came to music. "Look, I'm not familiar with your brother, and even less with current music, and this is all nice and stuff but, what does any of this have to do with me and my so called talents?"

"Yes, it is time to get down to the heart of the matter. Shall we?" He gestured back to the desk, and John followed, sitting dumbly in his chair. Mycroft looked at him, his fingers steepled at his mouth for a minute or two--just long enough to be weird--before he spoke.

"You're a wounded war veteran with a penchant for danger and a severe lack of excitement in your life is currently sucking your soul dry, would you say that's accurate?" He didn't leave time to respond before he plowed on. "You need more in your life. More, so that the firearm that you aren't supposed to have and no one knows about, doesn't find its way into your mouth some night. No, you need a challenge in life, and Sherlock is the biggest challenge of them all."

John sat back, dumbstruck. What the hell could he say to that?

"My brother has been having some troubles lately." Mycroft continued. "He's incredibly successful, but one often finds that with incredible success comes a mountain of...distractions. He's currently too distracted for his own good, and he's in need of someone to be there with him, 24-7, as a sort of moral compass if you will. To make sure he's spending his time.... productively."

This was a lot to take in. "So, you want me to babysit your spoiled brat of a famous baby brother?"

"That's not..."

'Is he the British Justin Bieber?" John giggled, feeling proud that he at least had one current reference in his pocket. The nurses at work were seemingly obsessed with the American singer and his "antics". John didn't know him or his music from Adam, but he sounded like a prat. If this Sherlock was anything like Bieber--and John could read between the lines--then he probably was just as much trouble.

"My brother has issues. I won't lie to you. And I've been letting things slide for too long. It's time to do something before he hurts himself or others. You see, my brother is an industry unto himself. Hundreds of people rely on him for their livelihood, and he's been jeopardizing his career, his future, and many other things with his reckless behavior."

"And are you one of those people who rely on him for your," John took in his opulent surroundings. "Livelihood?" Mycroft, for all his seemingly good intentions, wouldn't be the first family member to ride the coattails of a famous sibling.

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand at him. "Oh, this. This is all family money. Me and Sherlock come from a privileged background, and I hardly need to abuse my role as a brotherly figure for monetary gain. This isn't a soap opera. I am the only one looking out for Sherlock's best interests, but he's currently delinquent in his obligations to a major record label, and there are tour contracts that need to be fulfilled, not to mention he's souring his relationships with several important organizations and individuals."

"Sounds like a lot of pressure to put on someone's shoulders." John scratched at the back of his head. "How old is your brother?"

"He just turned twenty-two."

"Shit. He's just a kid!" John shook his head; he was barely able to make it to classes on time at that age, and definitely not mature enough to handle whatever Sherlock has to deal with. No wonder he was blowing off some steam.

"Sherlock is more than your average, mouth breathing twenty-two-year-old. He's special. He's insanely talented, possesses a genius level intellect, and he can handle the pressure flawlessly. But the pressure has never been the issue. If anything, he thrives on the chaos." Mycroft ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time looked, and sounded, genuinely ruffled. Maybe this ice man had a heart after all.

"The problem is his music. You see, it's his life. He would be lost without it. However, something has happened lately and he's taking it badly. He needs someone to steer him back on the path...and I think that person is you."

"Why me?

"I'm a determined man John, I get what I want. Always have. And I want you. Your application for bodyguard work tipped me off to your existence, and I proceeded from there. I have been surveilling--"

'Surveilling!?"

"... other candidates, but your skill set matches best with our needs. A doctor and a soldier. We are incredibly lucky to have found you Doctor Watson."

John was at a complete loss for words.

"So, what do you say? Will you take the position?"

There was nothing more to be said; Mycroft had laid it all out on the line, and now John was on the cusp of a life changing decision. Before he could overthink it, before he could argue with the voice of reason in his head, the one screaming at him that there was still so much he didn't know and that this could be the stupidest thing he'd ever do, he blew out a long breath and at the end of it gasped "I'll take it."

 


	6. Interlude: Twitter

**@SHolmes** haven't been on here in a while since I've been existing in the REAL world with real people but I need to get things off my chest

 

 **@SHolmes** I'm just living my life and no one is perfect. I am close but there's always a margin of error in science

 

 **@SHolmes** If I want to relax on a Friday night and I need a little green to help me on my way, then is that such a big deal?

 

 **@SHolmes** Pot is legal in several states here in the U.S. so everyone please collect the sticks up your arses and set them on fire or build a birdhouse or something

 

 **@SHolmes** and does anyone think for one moment I would defile this brilliant brain by snorting, injecting, or otherwise ingesting something more poisonous? I saw the crystal meth rumor. Are you serious?!

 

 **@SHolmes** And if a paparazzo shoved a camera into your face how would you react? Legally I can't say he had it coming but I will say he didn't not have it coming

 

 **@SHolmes** the reports in the media are rubbish. Don't believe everything you read. Think for yourself. Do not be a sheep. Cultivate your mind!

 

 **@SHolmes** if you want to do something other than worry about me, try a nice walk? This thing you do outside, NOT online..

 

 **@SHolmes** or maybe read a book? Or anything without emojis of poop or hashtags would work

 

 **@SHolmes** in summation: I am not on the verge of an impending breakdown nor have aliens taken over my body. Thank you, Weekly World News, for that gem.

 

 **@SHolmes** and no I will not tell you about my album, when there is something to tell I will tell you

 

 **@HolmesGasm** FIRST! **@SHolmes**

 

 **@GlamLock45** AAAAAAAH new album news?!!!? **@SHolmes**

 

 **@rainbow111** FUCK ME DADDY **@SHolmes**

 

 **@ShLuvr221** OMG Sherlock I love u!!! We need your new album now! **@SHolmes**

 

 **@DeductionFan** COME TO BRAZIL **@SHolmes**

 

 **@Lindsayyyyy** omg Sherlock it's been so long aaaaah gimme music now **@SHolmes**

 

 **@sassyXTRA** you are so hot **@SHolmes**

 

 **@HolmesiansUK** ALSJSJSKSLAJAKAK **@SHolmes**

 

 **@JimMoriartyFanz29** u r washed up u thought u would be the break out star from deduction but Jim is coming with new music that will burn the heart out of your career bye **@SHolmes**

 

 **@SHolmes** oh my **@JimMoriartyFan29** it's people like you that make me want to delete humanity. Kindly piss off or I will not hesitate to block you.

 

 **@IreneFanClubSpain** ahh **@SHolmes** omg plz collab with  **@IreneAdler** Your vocals would be fierce #INeedThisSoBad

 

 **@JimMoriartyFan29** and your last album sucked **@SHolmes**

 

 **@SHolmes** BLOCKED!! **@JimMoriartyFan29**

 

 **@crushinit** FLOP **@SHolmes**

 

 **@SHolmes** BLOCKED!! **@crushinit**

 

 **@HenryHounds** hey **@SHolmes** we hittin the club tonight?! Miss you boo xoxo last weekend was WILD

 

 **@SHolmes**   **@HenryHounds** ;)

 

 **@crushinit** I can't believe **@SHolmes** blocked me OMG haaaaaaaaa

 

 **@MTV** hey are we invited? **@SHolmes @HenryHounds**

 

 **@HolmesianFan4Eva** Sherlock I used to be a fan but now you are such a horrible roll model! Think of the children! **@SHolmes**

 

 **@SHolmes** your Twitter handle is a lie then? **@HolmesianFan4Eva**

**@SHolmes** also it's ROLE not ROLL you illiterate imbecile **@HolmesianFan4Eva**

 

 **@SHolmes** also.. *dramatic pause*.. BLOCKED! **@HolmesianFan4Eva**

 

 **@MollyHooper2000** omg I am your biggest fan Sherlock! I'm updating your fansite right now! Any new album info to share?! ;) ~~~^~~~@

 

 **@MollyHooper2000** omg I was so excited I forgot to even @ u I am so embarrassed lol **@SHolmes**

 

 **@MollyHooper2000** don't be mad at all these ~haters all your true fans believe in you and love you!!! **@SHolmes**

 

 **@MollyHooper2000** please can I get a response please please please you never respond but I will keep trying **@SHolmes**

 

 **@MollyHooper2009** *sigh* I will keep trying I LOVE YOU **@SHolmes**

 

 **@MoranManiacs** I think it's time for a #sherlockholmesisoverparty **@SHolmes**

 

 **@SebsSweethearts** go away you ruined Deduction by leaving **@SHolmes** #sherlockholmesisoverparty

 

 **@SHolmes** watching the idiocy of mankind fly past you in real time is exhausting.

 

 **@SHolmes** #BYE

 

 **@enews** WOAH WOAH WOAH did **@SHolmes** just delete his Twitter account?! Are his other social media sites next? Tantrum? Or is a surprise in store?

 

 **@MTV** you could have just said no, you didn't need to leave /0\  **@SHolmes**

 

 **@Buzzfeed** In Memorial Of Sherlock Holmes' Twitter account: 20 Of His Greatest Online Clapbacks

 

 **@MollyHooper2000** OH MY GOD NO WHYYYYY I AM CRYING NO NOOOOOOOOO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are on twitter and/or follow celebs on there then this makes perfect sense to you. If not then you are probably hella confused and I'm sorry LOL


	7. L.A Bound

John had been given a month in which to give his employer notice and get his business affairs together in advance of moving to L.A., and it passed relatively quickly. Bart's was sad to lose him, but was generally supportive of his "new direction in life" (the exact direction he kept to himself), and the few friends he has (Mike and a few guys he would meet up for drinks with at the pub) were more than a bit curious at why he was moving so far away, but they didn't press too hard. Most of them, except for Mike, were former military, and they understood that sometimes change was just a thing one needed.

For a few weeks John had tried his hardest to get in contact with Harry, thinking he should probably say goodbye to her in person, having no idea when or if he would return, but message after message went unanswered. Finally, in a fit of anger he sent her an expletive laden, yet heartfelt email, detailing how absolutely maddening she was and that if his attempts to actually make contact with her were so burdensome, then she would be quite happy with his news, as he would soon be a whole ocean away....and that he still loved her and would miss her even though she was a giant git.

That got her attention, and she had sent a short reply, saying "I will miss you Johnny" and "let me know you got there safe" but that was about it. It was more than he'd expected, honestly.

***

"No." Was all Sherlock said, all the reply he would dignify Mycroft with. The nerve of his brother and his schemes. This was not about protecting him, no matter how strongly he defended himself, it was about control, plain and simple. "Absolutely not."

"It's already done brother mine. He will be here in two weeks. I tried to warn you earlier, but you have been most tricky to get ahold of."

Sherlock flipped himself back around to look up at his brother. If he could have this conversation pouting into the back of the sofa cushions, he would, but he wanted his dear brother to see the full brunt of his displeasure. He took him in for a moment, his thinning hair mussed, shirtsleeves pushed haphazardly up above his elbows, and a tie hanging limply from a perspiration soaked collar. Still not used to the L.A heat then. Good, let him suffer. Or better yet, he could take his arse back to London.

"I am twenty-two years old. I am an adult and if you try and bring a stranger into my home to tell me what to do and when to do it then I..." He flicked his eyes about the room, trying to come up with the best threat to put Mycroft off his latest grand idea. "I will disappear, and for good this time. I have bolt holes all over the world now, brother mine." He spat with venom, tugging his dressing gown tighter around him, like a security blanket. "Remember that one summer? Well it will be like that, but ten times worse. You will never find me."

"Such histrionics Sherlock.

"I mean it."

"Well, then I would simply stake out every Four Seasons and Ritz Carlton across the globe until I find you. You are nothing if not predictable Sherlock, and your love of creature comforts will prevent you from being truly unfindable, as will the fact that you are highly recognizable, and in today's age of camera phones and social media, imminently traceable."

"I will fire you then!"

"You could, but you know no other manager will have you."

"I will quit then. I mean it. Give it all up."

"We both know that will never come to pass. It's an empty threat you trot out every time your emotions run amok. Music is too important to you to leave it behind."

He looked so smug. The bastard. "Argh, you are impossible!" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, wanting to pull at his curls in frustration. "I don't need some babysitter! I don't want a thick skulled, low IQ meathead trailing after me, keeping tabs on my every move! I already have you for that!"

Mycroft tsk'd at him before settling himself onto the edge of sofa, inches from his bare feet. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to kick at him; instead he flopped back over, burying his head back into the cushions and sighing. He already knew this was a battle he would never win.

"He's not a brute Sherlock. I would think you know me better than that. He's an intelligent man--quite fascinating really. Ex-military, and a doctor as well. A surgeon."

Sherlock perked up a bit at that. How...unexpected. He ignored the way the words "ex-military" sent a tingle of excitement down his spine. This was not the time to give in to his baser instincts. Besides, he was more curious at why a doctor would take a job as some sort of live in minder to a celebrity. He knew Mycroft would compensate him well but, but it was a bit unorthodox. Unless he was one of those types, desperate for fame or to be near fame that they would take any of the scraps they could. He had met enough of those types to last a lifetime.

That thought aside, Sherlock couldn't help but be intrigued. He wouldn't let his brother know though, and all he did in response was huff even louder.

"He will be here at the end of the month. I suggest you take the remaining time to come to terms with the arrangement."

***

The seat was leather as supple as he'd ever felt, and though he wasn't a tall man, he had so much leg room he couldn't help but kick his feet up in the air like a little kid, enjoying every second of something so novel as flying first class. The man in the seat next to him, a bespectacled older gentleman in a business suit, looked a bit scandalized for a moment, before turning his attention back to his copy of The New York Times with a sniff. Well then. John wasn't going to let anyone ruin his childlike glee. No Watson's before him had ever taken a trans-Atlantic flight, let alone one in style, and he was going to make up for all of the generations that came before him (going to Afghanistan had been the first and only time someone in his family had flown anywhere). Putting on his brightest smile, he signaled to the flight attendant, wanting to get in on a little of that hot towel action, and the woman came over with a smile, depositing one into his hand.

John unfurled the towel, placing it on his tired eyes and sighed obnoxiously loud (his seat mate was sure to have a coronary at that), and after a few moments he felt himself slip into a light doze.

He woke up somewhere around two hours later, the towel still embarrassingly perched on his face, and he peeled the now cold pierce of fabric from him and blinked at the bright light coming in from the half lowered window shade. They were so high above the cloud cover that the view was nothing but endless blue. The flight attendants were making their rounds again, and they were soon served with dinner, and his choice had been a salmon fillet with rosemary fingerling potatoes and asparagus, washed down with a flute of champagne or two. He could only feel sorry for whatever gruel the passengers in coach were being made to choke down. This was heavenly.

Six hours into the eleven hour flight was when he started to get a bit restless. The realization of where he was headed, and what he was off to do, hit him like a brick wall, and suddenly that meal wasn't sitting so well in his stomach. He'd been so busy the past month, tying up loose ends and such, that he'd unfortunately let one rather big loose end go. He took out his phone, grateful for inflight wifi, and brought up the search browser, typing in 'Sherlock Holmes'. He'd meant to do all of this a great deal earlier, but he just.... hadn't. Maybe he had been a bit afraid of what he would find, given how much of a problem this kid seemed to be. Maybe deep down he thought he'd change his mind?

The results brought up page after page of links (over two hundred and fifty million results it said at the top of the page), and he scrolled through them with interest. Near the top of the page was his Wikipedia entry, and he clicked on it.

**_Sherlock Holmes (born January 6th, 1995) is a British singer-songwriter. He is known as a member of the boyband Deduction and for his solo career. In 2008, British producer Charles Augustus Magnussen held a country wide talent search for members of his newly formed all boy group. The group consisted of member Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran, and Sebastian Wilkes. They went on to achieve multi-platinum success worldwide before their split._ **

At the top of the bio was a picture; Sherlock was a cute kid, fresh faced and with a trace of baby fat still left in his cheeks. It was obviously not a recent photo. John continued to click through each section, and there was just so much information. From the hospital in Sussex he had been born at, to the names of his parents (Violet and Sigerson), to even the name of a beloved childhood pet (Redbeard), no stone had been left unturned. All the statistics, awards, and minutia about his career was there as well, and he scanned through the surprisingly lengthy discography. He wanted to know more.

Going back to google he did an image search, and suddenly John felt the bottom drop out. These were more recent pics indeed; everything from press photos from the red carpet, to highly stylized magazine covers, flooded the page and he was shocked by how different he looked. Sherlock had definitely grown up. He was not so cute anymore, and John felt a strange sensation twisting in his gut. Sherlock was fucking gorgeous, that was undeniable. He was a bit strange looking--taken separately he's not sure his features would be aesthetically pleasing--but all together it gave him an exotic look. He was pale, with a rather long face, and the lingering baby fat had vanished, leaving strikingly high cheek bones, and on top of them sat slightly cat like eyes, bright green. His hair was dark, almost black, with threads of Mycroft's auburn-like color running through it, and those lips... He had lips fuller than any mans had a right to be, with a pronounced cupid's bow, and in every single photo they were curved into a haughty smirk that just screamed 'I am better than you and I know it'.

Overall, he wasn't usually the type that John went for, but damn if this wasn't doing it for him. Good to see his libido was still hanging in there. Nonetheless, he would have to nip this in the bud. To be ogling Sherlock like this was highly unprofessional.

As he continued to scroll the pics got more interesting. There were candid's, or screenshots from videos, fuzzy and almost indistinguishable in some cases, but it was him, messy and undone, in the middle of a fight in a club, or flipping off a paparazzo as he entered the back of a car. There were TMZ story after story about his fights, or being late for performances, and one where he had stormed off the stage and never returned. There were headlines that spoke about his "epic Twitter flounce"(whatever the hell that was) and rumors his follow up album was delayed indefinitely.

John frowned at the screen; how could someone so young, so bright, so _beautiful_ , threaten to throw it all away like this?

The last link he clicked on took him to Youtube and he was hit with video after video. He pressed play, slipping in his earbuds after a rather vicious glare from his seatmate, and was instantly transfixed. Sherlock's voice was indescribable. It was a smooth tenor, with just the slightest hint of grit. It soared effortlessly through register after register, seemingly having no end, and it imbued every lyric with endless emotion. It was unlike anything he'd ever heard before, and he was hooked. The songs were surprisingly complex for top 40 pop aimed to appeal to the masses, with lyrical content that actually had something to say beyond 'raise your hands in the air if you just don't care', and he sang them with conviction. He wasn't sure what to think of the videos--hardly his area--but they had a high production value and a smattering of attractive female love interests. Pretty standard stuff.

The last video he clicked on was down in the sidebar; it was an interview done with MTV News. John wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but holy shit. Sherlock's speaking voice was nothing like his singing voice. His singing voice was a tenor all the way--most male vocalists fell into that category--but when he spoke it was with a velvety rich baritone that John felt in his bones. It was almost.... erotic. And just like his brother, so very posh.

All of this had left him reeling. It was a lot to take in, and it made him wonder, if he had researched Sherlock before like he'd meant to, would he still be sitting on this plane, winging his way to another country? The way his heart was beating just a bit faster told him yes, yes he would.

***

Sherlock stretched out on the chaise, watching the water in his pool shimmer in the sun, and made sure that each and every part of his exposed skin was firmly under the stretch of shade caused by the shadow of his house. Southern California sunshine was not his friend, and the almost third degree burn he'd received when he'd first arrived was testament to that. With a lighter in one hand, and a blunt in the other, he lifted it to his mouth, lighting the end and putting it between his lips, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. This so-called John would be arriving today, and he'd briefly considered slipping away to the Chateau Marmont to avoid him for as long as he could, but the last thing he wanted was Mycroft's cronies dragging him from their premises like a naughty child.

No, he would await his punishment with his big boy pants on, even if it made him want to scream. He flicked idly through his phone; he had several unanswered text messages just sitting there, and he deleted them, one by one. Boring.

With a great, put upon sigh, he popped his earbuds in, cranked the volume up on his phone, and lost himself in his music, hoping to finally be inspired and clear the constant cacophony in his head.


	8. Interlude: The Sherlock Holmes Connection

**Hello and welcome to The Sherlock Holmes Connection. We are the #1 Sherlock Holmes fansite in existence. With an extensive picture and video archive and a forum that boats over THREE THOUSAND members, we are the place to be to fangirl over our favorite singer. I am Molly Hooper, your webmistress, and I am working day and night to bring you the latest, up to date Sherlock Holmes content.**

*****UPDATE*****

Hi Guys!

Just a heads up here that the site will be experiencing some downtime tomorrow afternoon for general maintenance so if you can't log in please don't freak out.

I also wanted to pop in and address the situation going on in the forums right now. Yes, we all KNOW that Sherlock has been the recipient of some bad press lately but that does not excuse the members of this forum from the nasty fighting and downright trolling going on. THIS WILL NO LONGER BE ALLOWED. Any posts that violate the rules of this community, which is to celebrate our mutual love of all things Sherlock, will be edited by our moderators, or deleted completely. Failure to comply will end in a banishment from this site.

I know we are all HEARTBROKEN over Sherlock's flounce from social media but that just means it's time for all of us to stay strong and band together. Also, our lovely moderator HolmesIsWhereTheHeartIs has an extensive archive of ALL of Sherlock's now deleted Instagram posts(as well as an archive of his tweets) and is in the process of putting those up shortly. YAY!

XOXO

Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of COURSE Molly would be fangirl #1. Duh lol


	9. Instant Chemistry

A black Range Rover came to pick John up at the airport, and he waited a minute, seeing if anyone was going to hop out and help him with his luggage, but it was soon clear that would not be the case. After stowing his suitcases in the boot, and after a moment of hesitation as to whether he should get into the back or not, he awkwardly slid into the passenger seat.

"Keep forgetting it's the other way around here in the States." He joked, and the woman behind the wheel looked him over, smiling warmly. She was north of sixty years old at least, and not exactly what he'd been expecting. Her face had the kind of bone structure that hinted at a once youthful beauty, and her eyes were kind and friendly. She gave off a very genteel grandmother vibe, dressed in a matronly floral print dress, and John felt instantly put at ease.

Then she opened her mouth.

"Hello there, and you must be John." She exclaimed, her accent saying born and bred in London. Did the Holmes brothers associate exclusively with Brits? "Oh, well of course you're John. It's not like I go around letting strange men into my car willy nilly." She looked thoughtful for a second. "At least not anymore. But the seventies were a different time, you know? People were much freer about such things then. Well, you understand." She patted his shoulder in a motherly way, leaving him a bit at a loss for words.

She giggled like a polite elderly lady would, had they just been gossiping over tea at the gardening club, not making blasé quips about... well he didn't even want to know. "Uh, yes I'm John. Pleased to make your acquaintance...." He trailed off, not knowing what to call her.

"Mrs. Hudson dear." She said, pulling the car out of the congested arrivals area and moving into traffic. All around them L.A beckoned to be taken in, but John couldn't stop staring at the strange woman across from him. "And you can call me Mrs. Hudson, if you don't mind. It may be old fashioned but I feel I've earned at least a little formality. I've waited all these years for the so called respect that comes with a life long lived, but all I've gotten for my trouble is a bum hip, so they can sod right off with that nonsense!" She tittered, eyes glued to the road. "Thank God California is a medical marijuana state."

John blinked dumbly for a minute before nodding along, a strained smile on his face. He wasn't sure if he should be looking for a hidden camera or bail out of the car at the next stoplight. Either way, this slightly dotty older woman was amusing.

As they continued to drive, Mrs. Hudson prattled on. She was originally from London, had known the family since both boys were babes, and after the breakup of her marriage ("He was a _criminal_ John" she whispered as if there was someone else nearby to overhear them) the boys had set her up with a cushy gig. Her official title was housekeeper, but since Sherlock was rarely home, it didn't leave her with much to do, but there's a Mrs. Turner who is the housekeeper next door for two married "homosexual actors" that she's friendly with, and she spends an uncomfortable amount of time waxing poetic about how it's so wonderful that the world is changing and how the neighborhood has "all kinds" of people like them.

"Now I'll be taking you to the house, but keep in mind I won't be doing this regularly. I'm the housekeeper dear, not your Uber driver, so just this once ok?" She said sternly. "L.A. is nothing like London unfortunately. There is a public transport system but it's just not the same. Sherlock has a car you can use if you know how to drive, since he refuses to drive it. He wastes so much money on taxis and that nonsense. So you should be just fine. Now strap in, it's rush hour."

Without a warning, she flooded the gas and John felt his stomach lurch. He'd heard a bit about L.A traffic, but this was insane. The freeway stretched across multiple lanes, and each one was almost bumper to bumper with cars. They weren't moving very fast, and Mrs. Hudson said to be thankful they were moving at all, before she pulled a complicated set of maneuvers that had John gripping the door handle so tight his knuckles were white.

They ended up in a lane that was slightly less packed and began cruising along nicely. "It's a good thing you're here dear." She smiled warmly, and her eyes were so tender that John was ready to hear something about how Sherlock really needed someone like him, or some other sappy nonsense, but she simply patted him on the shoulder and said "We can use the carpool lane."

***

It was a relatively quick trip from LAX to Sherlock's despite the heavy traffic, and John soon lost himself looking out the window as they drove, only half listening to Mrs. Hudson chatter on in the background. She didn't seem to realize--or care--and he did his best to orient himself to his new surroundings. There was just so much to see; the southern California sunshine took a bit of getting used to, considering it was cold and gray back home, and he couldn't get over how things just seemed to be more spread out here than in London. There was simply more space to fill and the freeways, cars, billboards, and endless expanse of blue sky sucked everything up. For the first time since he'd left he felt a twinge of home sickness, and he had barely just arrived.

Sherlock's house was situated off a particularly winding road in the Hollywood hills, a street name that he instantly forgot, and John suspected that when he finally ventured out on his own he would be lucky to find it again. Perhaps that was the point; as a celebrity, Sherlock must value his privacy, so having a hard to find place, nestled in a nook somewhere in the hills, was probably for the best. According to Mrs. Hudson most of his neighbors were in the entertainment business and from the glimpses of the houses he saw as they drove past, they did pretty well for themselves indeed.

"Home at last." Mrs. Hudson announced, pulling up to a house at the end of a street that dead ended into a cul-de-sac, and from what he could see of the house over the privacy fence, it looked more like an industrial building than the house of a popstar. In his head, he'd pictured a sienna colored Spanish tiled roof and palm trees reaching towards the sky, but this was rather sleek looking and cold. Mrs. Hudson made quick work of entering in a security passcode, and the front gates swung inward, opening to a drive that wound up to the imposing structure. He spotted no less than five security cameras aimed at different points in the perimeter--surely Mycroft's doing--and the whole thing had a very prison block feeling to it.

The inside was just as sleek and cold as the outside; a marble floored foyer led into a modern kitchen with floor to ceiling windows that looked out over a rather impressive in ground pool, which led into another modern room, and then another, done up in muted tones with pops of color, each space looking like a page ripped from an interior design magazine. It was beautiful for sure, but it was lacking anything that gave it a hint of the owner who lived there. There were no pictures on the walls, no nick knacks, no general clutter. Mrs. Hudson led him into a living room with two curved leather sofas, slightly worse for wear, that faced each other, making a sort of open ended almond shape, and a baby grand tucked into the corner. For the first time, there was a hint of personality to this room, and he took in the top of the piano, piled with stacks of books and paper that had been scribbled all over. There even was a violin and bow, lying over the mess.

And then John saw something that really caught his eye.

On top of an overturned wooden crate sat a record player, and there were at least four crates surrounding that one, each overflowing with vinyl. Anything that couldn't fit into the crates was piled into stacks that leaned up against the wall or the leg of the piano. It was a beautiful sight. Even though vinyl records had made somewhat of a resurgence in the past few years, especially among music purists and so-called hipsters, it was still a rare sight to see, especially in the house of someone so young.

The collection called to him and soon he was bent over it, flipping through each of them, surprised by the variety in his collection. There was a fair share of current artists--many he'd never heard of--but also a happy sampling of ones he was more familiar with. Bowie, MJ's Off The Wall album, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, The Beatles White album, even "Moving Pictures by Rush. John was instantly transported back to his childhood as he slipped the record from the crate and stared at the cover. His father used to play the hell out of this album growing up, and he had vivid memories of his father blasting Tom Sawyer after a long day at the factory.

John slipped the record back into its place and looked up to take in the rest of the only room that seemed to actually be lived in. He noticed an electric fireplace behind him, with a sleek black marble mantle running along its width, and ah yes--there was the requisite collection of awards. He wondered what it would be like to have to worry where you would display your many accolades. The closest he'd ever gotten was deciding where to hang his framed medical diploma, now safely packed away among his belongings.

He moved along the mantle, reading the inscription on each plaque and statuette, a little confused at the black lacquer skull and not sure who gave out an award like that, until he came to two familiar gold gramophones. "Pop vocal of the year." He said to himself, gently touching the base of it. It was slightly dusty. Before he could read the inscription on the other one, someone cleared their throat behind him, and he jumped.

***

Sherlock watched from the doorway; he was quiet as a mouse when he needed to be, and the man currently invading his home and rifling through his personal possessions was unaware of his presence. So this was John Watson, the man sent all the way from back home to hold his hand and make sure he was a good boy. He felt the corner of his lip start to curl into a snarl and did his best to tamp that bitter feeling down. It wouldn't do any good to start off with a fight and perhaps if he played along, was civil enough, he could convince this John that he didn't really need to much of his minding, and could be somewhat left alone.

John was smaller than he'd imagined, and the idea of him being the thick-skulled brute he'd accused Mycroft of hiring was downright laughable. He was a good foot or so shorter than himself, with sandy blonde hair and a face he couldn't make out, as he was bent over his stack of records, and his frame was small, though his back and shoulders were broad enough compared to his slim waist. If Sherlock noticed that he was rather fit, with denim that clung to well-shaped thighs and arse, then that was neither here nor there.

He watched silently until John moved over to the mantle. When he got to the Grammy's, he decided he'd waited long enough.

"Best new artist Grammy." Sherlock cut the silence, affecting an air of boredom. He felt a small bit of satisfaction at how it made John jump and continued on. "Do you know how many winners of that award go on to linger in obscurity? It's more of a curse to win it than an honor really."

John fully turned around at that and Sherlock felt the rest of his words die on his tongue. John had a friendly face, handsome enough in a nonthreatening way, with thin lips, a rounded nose one could only call 'cute', and two of the darkest blue, most expressive eyes he'd ever seen. They were taking Sherlock in from head to toe, and he wasn't used to being on the other end of such a knowing gaze. That was usually his territory. There was a calm determination about John, as if nothing could rattle him, and Sherlock suspected that was the military man in him. Or perhaps it was the surgeon in him, used to the pressure of having to save lives. A small smile played at the corner of his lips and Sherlock couldn't look away. It had literally only been seconds, but Sherlock was fascinated.

Well, fuck. No, this wouldn't do at all. Sherlock cleared his throat, getting himself back on track before John would notice the oddly long silence. "I never wanted them you know. The awards. It's always been about the music for me. Success is more of a burden than anything. Not that I would expect you to understand."

"You seem to like them enough to display them." John volleyed his back, his tone light and teasing. "And I can see how this big and beautiful house is a burden indeed."

Was John.... sassing him? Interesting. "I tried to get rid of them, but my brother insists Mummy will be crushed if I do. As for the house, this is Mycroft's doing as well."

"I'm sensing a theme here."

"Quite." Sherlock stepped further into the room, running his hand along the back of one of the sofas, picking at the slightly cracked leather. "I used to live in a flat in London. It was small, and cluttered, but it was mine and it was perfect. When I launched my solo career my brother and the label thought it best to move me here to this sunny hell hole."

"I see."

There was a moment or two of awkward silence, where really Sherlock should have introduced himself properly, perhaps shook his hand like manners dictated, and suggested they sit down and discuss what was expected of this arrangement, but instead neither of them said a word, and just continued to size each other up. John's jumper was truly hideous, and there was far too much gray in his hair for only being thirty, but God his eyes were so blue.

"You have eclectic taste." John said abruptly, gesturing towards his vinyl collection. "I don't think I've met someone so young who even knows who Rush is."

"Well, Geddy Lee has a fascinating voice. I appreciate artists with unique talent and who are different." Sherlock's brow wrinkled. "You're not that much older than me, and you know them."

"Yes, but I'm an old soul." John smiled, wide and warm, his eyes dancing, and that little feeling that had stolen his words before was back; this time it was doing something stuttery inside his chest.

This was by far the strangest conversation Sherlock had ever had. Here they were, not even formally introduced yet, and they had fallen into some sort of banter as if they were old friends, which was ridiculous. Sherlock didn't do friends. It was not as if he didn't want them, it was just impossible to have them in his line of work. Genuine people were hard to come by in the entertainment world, and it was hard to nurture any kind of relationship when you were always so busy, or away from home. Besides, this man was the enemy, here to trail him and tattle on him and make his life a lot less fun; the last thing he needed was to form some sort of attachment.

"Yes, an old soul indeed. You're still a young man, yet you find yourself drawn exclusively to music from decades ago and nothing remotely current. Why is that?" Sherlock stepped even closer, his eyes flitting across Johns face. John looked slightly wary in return. "You prefer this music because it represents a simpler time in your life. It takes you back to the music you grew up listening to, back when your family was happy, before the bitter divorce, the out of control drinking of your younger sister that drove another wedge between the family, and the war that left you with an intermittent tremor in your left hand, and a slight psychosomatic limp. Which used to be more pronounced and in need of a cane, going by the way your hand hangs there, as if searching for something to hold, and the slight hitch in your hip as if you're used to leaning on something. But that's all resolved now."

The room was quiet for an agonizingly long moment before John breathed out. "That's amazing."

"I know."

"And so humble too."

Sherlock couldn't help it; a guttural laugh ripped from his body before he could hold it back, and he met John's stare.

"Ok, how do you possibly know all of that? Do you and your brother have mind reading abilities? He did something similar too... this whole reading your life business. His was a lot creepier I must admit."�

"I saw it. It's all over you." Sherlock perched himself on the back of the couch, letting his feet dangle. "I find it easy to read people, they give off so many clues. In this business, you must be able to read people or else you will get screwed. Walked all over. Music is just one of the methods I employ. It's incredibly personal and the perfect window into so many things--age, socioeconomic status, skeletons in the closet, deepest desires, so on and so forth. Music is... everything."

"If it's everything, why are you trying so hard to piss it all away?"

And just like that, the window into himself that he had been opening, slammed shut. Sherlock had been too open, had given too much of himself away. John wasn't here to listen to him rhapsodize about his love of music, or to be impressed with his deduction sills, and he felt the friendliness seep from his face and his body go rigid. John noticed the immediate change in atmosphere and had the sense to look guilty about it. Despite all of that, there was still a spark of something in the air. A tension. It should've been a bad sort of tension, considering the note they'd ended on, but it strangely wasn't. It was the same feeling of anticipation Sherlock got right before he sat down to compose. Right before his fingertips made contact with the cool ivory keys, or pressed his bow to the taught strings on his violin. It was... electric. It was also the worst thing to happen in this circumstance.

Thankfully he didn't need to think too hard about it as Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to poke her head through the door with a "Woohoo!" and announce that it was time for dinner.

****

Dinner was takeaway from a place called In and Out Burger, plopped unceremoniously on the table by Mrs. Hudson, and John moaned with pleasure around something called a "double double" while Sherlock gave him an odd look and blinked a great deal.

Sherlock had been quiet and standoffish the rest of the night, which John pinned down to his incredibly stupid 'foot in mouth' moment. Idiot, he scolded himself, to say something so blunt like that (did he expect Sherlock to bare his soul in the middle of his living room?) just as they'd been getting to know each other. John had felt as if they had been clicking; there had been an instant chemistry between them, but whatever tentative something had been happening, it was replaced by a cold, business like atmosphere. Perhaps it was for the best, considering how Sherlock was even more gorgeous in person, and how utterly drawn to him John found himself.

Yes, this was much, much better.

They hadn't gotten around to discussing his actual job, seeing as how Sherlock begged off after a few bites of his burger and proclaimed he had "pressing engagements" and disappeared upstairs to his bedroom, but John had his orders from Mycroft and they were enough to go on for now. He didn't think Sherlock would be keen on discussing it anyways, bad mood or not.

Exhausted, he retired to the room that was to be his quarters--down the hall opposite the direction of Sherlock's--and flopped onto the bed. The room was spacious and comfortable, much nicer than his bedsit had been, and had a lovely view of the backyard and pool, as well as his own private bath.

There was so much swimming around in his head, so many things to think about, worry over, and the like, but as soon as his head hit the pillow he fell into a deep sleep, shoes still on his feet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK why but I feel like John would be really into classic rock


	10. Interlude: Tumblr

**HolmesianToday-and-always**

**Anonymous** said: What do you think of the rumors going around that Sherlock

is gay? I saw on another blog that someone said they saw another blog who

had pics of him out at a club from a few months ago and he was chatting with

another random guy and looking verrrrry friendly?!?

 

Hey anon, look I don't like to speculate on someone's sexuality but I've gotten SO many asks now about these photos, and while I haven't seen them myself, I feel like I have to comment on this. Do I think Sherlock is gay? Well, first of all let's just say that there is a wide spectrum to human sexuality and to only go right to "gay" may not represent whatever he is. That being said, have you listened to any of his lyrics on his debut album? I mean, a lot of his songs are jam packed with gay subtext and there are many who theorize that a lot of them were about his relationship with his long term backup dancer Henry Knight. It's never been proven they ever were involved, but there is a treasure trove of pics and shit over at **@FYEAHKnightlock** that you can check out. They've been working together FOREVER and he followed Sherlock from Deduction to his solo career to dance for him, and just...have you seen how flirty they are on Twitter? Or used to be, since Sherlock deleted.

If I was to guess I would say that Sherlock isn't straight. But since he's now rumored to be dating his other backup dancer Sally...maybe he's bi? Anyways, hope I answered your questions. To all the other anons, I now consider this subject closed.

**Sherrrrrrgirl** reblogged this

 **wendydarling** liked this

 **515-its-alive** reblogged this

 **FYEAHKnightlock** reblogged this

 **icwutudidthur** omggggggg I think he needs to come out already

 **icwutudidthur** reblogged this

 **DoYourThang** no Sherlock is not gay stop leave him alone ugh you fangirls need2 stop

 **lifeloveandthepursuitofgay** liked this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to LOL
> 
> To anyone reading this in real time I have more chapters to post and will throw them up tomorrow. I want to post all I have so I can get to work on writing part two =)


	11. Studio Time

John spent the next few days in a state of limbo; he spent his time feeling useless, as Sherlock had decided to pull disappearing act after disappearing act, leaving him feeling incredibly frustrated at not being able to do much of anything. He had been brought here to be Sherlock's shadow, not to lounge about by the pool, and in a bit of annoyance he had asked Mycroft if they couldn't just low jack him or something.

"We've already tried that. He's too clever. He always finds the trackers."

Mycroft assured him that it was under control at the moment; Sherlock hadn't been causing any trouble, and they would just have to sit tight for the time being, until he was needed. Maybe they won't need me after all and I'll be sent back, John wondered, and the thought left him uneasy.

So, John spent his plentiful free time exploring the area, taking the keys to Sherlock's SUV (and having an interesting time learning to navigate on the other side of the road) and doing a bit of sightseeing. He concluded rather quickly that he didn't really like L.A. The traffic was hell, the smog left him feeling congested, and he'd seen enough bottle blondes with plastic faces and tiny dogs to last a lifetime. It was all rather cliché, but then again, those cliché's existed for a reason. The beach was nice though, and he spent many a morning there, a cup of coffee from the nearest Starbucks in hand, simply losing his thoughts among the crash of the waves. It's incredibly scenic and a part of him wanted to steal away, maybe take Sherlock's car and cruise up the 101, but he was here to do work, not take an extended vacation.

If he could actually do anything that is.

Soon after another conversation with Mycroft in which he complained about his lack of purpose, he decided to be proactive. He did some research into some of the haunts Sherlock liked to frequent, and gave them each a visit, making friends with the bouncers (several were ex-military so that was easy) and did his best to convince the management not to allow Sherlock into their establishments. That was an idea doomed from the start; as Sherlock's presence gave them notoriety and brought in clientele--aka money--there was no way they were going to deny him access. The bar tenders were more agreeable though, especially when given generous tips(courtesy of Mycroft's bank account), and several agreed not to serve Sherlock.

It was this that finally brought Sherlock back into his orbit after two weeks of ghosting John. Sherlock reappeared one morning; he wouldn't say where he'd been or what he'd been doing, but John suspected 'avoiding you' sat on the tip of his tongue. He barged into the kitchen as John sat at the breakfast bar, drinking his tea, and he looked furious. He had obviously been out all night doing something, but he looked fresh as a daisy, not a hair out of place nor the stench of alcohol permeating him. Maybe his plan had worked?

"Imagine John, for a moment," He growled, his voice low and even deeper than normal. "Going to a place you feel comfortable relaxing in without the eyes of the world staring at you, and you want nothing more than a simple drink, when the bartender denies you bottle service like you were some snot nosed kid! Now imagine that happening at another three places!" He slammed a fist down onto the countertop, shaking John's teacup. "Imagine!"

John grinned slyly. Success. "I'm actually surprised they followed through with it to be honest. You can be very.... persuasive I imagine."

Sherlock let out a noise that sounded like a toddler throwing a tantrum and pulled at the sides of his hair. "Argh! I knew this would happen! I knew you were here to ruin my life and make me look like a fool!"

So, they were finally going to talk about this then? Fine. Good. John sat up straighter in his chair and fixed him with a stern look. "I am here because your brother thinks you need help. He's concerned about you, that's all. There's no grand conspiracy to cramp your style."

"Mycroft doesn't care, he's just trying to control me like he always has, ever since we were young."

"If controlling you means you don't flame out too early like so many before you, then I'm all for it." John snapped, surprised by the passion in his voice. Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback too, as he fixed John with a scrutinizing look and said nothing.

John stood up, dusting the remnants of his breakfast from his jumper, as he deposited his empty cup into the sink. "I'm going to Runyon Canyon. I need a little exercise. Too much In and Out you know?" John patted his stomach and chuckled. He'd gone up a belt notch in two weeks, and that would not do. "Join me?"

Sherlock looked aghast and John stifled back a laugh. Everything about Sherlock screamed that he wasn't the outdoorsy type, and he expected him to decline, but surprisingly he said "Fine."

"Great. Go put on something more suitable." John gestured to the red patterned silk shirt, unbuttoned to his chest, and the pair of illegally tight black leather trousers. "I'm going to go change and I'll be right back."

After slipping into a loose t-shirt, track pants and trainers, John bounded back downstairs to see Sherlock exactly like he was before, scrolling listlessly on his phone. Ok, have it your way, John thought. When they got to Runyon, John couldn't help but giggle at how Sherlock looked like some sort of rock and roll vampire out amongst the late morning joggers and people walking their dogs. He scowled behind sunglasses as they walked, but otherwise didn't complain. He did stop to pet a few friendly pooches that came up to sniff at him, and when John asked why he didn't have a dog himself (it was clear he liked them, as he made a point to look at each one they passed) Sherlock replied wistfully "My lifestyle is not conducive to pet ownership." And that was that.

They walked silently for about thirty minutes, till they reached a point where John needed a rest. The climb was pretty steep here, and he had to catch his breath and look at the view. The skies were clear today, smog level low, and the city of L.A. spread out before them. He looked over to Sherlock, where he had perched himself on a rock, wanting to say something about the view, and saw Sherlock puffing away on a cigarette.

"Seriously? You hike for thirty minutes and this is how you repay your lungs? Do you even know the horrible shit that are in those things?"

Sherlock blew out a puff of smoke into a perfectly shaped O. "You can't smoke anywhere in L.A. John. I have to take it where I can." He smirked.

John rolled his eyes. He felt a bit like a scolding Mum. "You're a singer. You should know better."

Sherlock continued to puff, ignoring him. John turned his attention back to the view and let the silence engulf them. Maybe he should try to get the ball rolling on other topics he wanted to discuss? Maybe he could break through to him, find a sliver of that connection from their first meeting, and convince him that he was not the enemy, and he didn't need to keep giving him the slip.

But Sherlock, maybe sensing this, stood up, spun on his heel and began marching back down from where they'd come. "I'm ready to leave now." He called over his shoulder.

John sighed.

***

The weeks dragged on and while there wasn't much movement on the Sherlock front--he was still incredibly closed off and barely said a handful of words in John's presence--he at least had stopped slinking off to God knows where, leaving John in the lurch. There were a series of heated phone calls between Sherlock and Mycroft that John overheard, and a day later Mycroft informed him that he would be spending the next few weeks, or longer, accompanying Sherlock to the studio where he had scheduled time with various producers lined up. Mycroft warned him that this could be a "danger" time, and to keep a trained eye and a tight rein on him.

Sure, as if that was so easy.

They headed out one evening, a car paid for by the label had been sent for them, and John was surprised they were getting such a late start. Sherlock informed him that he did all his sessions in the evening, as it was the best time for him to be in the mood to work. They ended up at a recording studio off Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, called Sunset Sounds, and while the outside of the building was hardly impressive, it was the history of the premises that grabbed John's attention. Led Zeppelin, The Stones and The Doors all had recorded there, and when one of the music engineers told him Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys was recorded there, well John just about lost his mind.

They walked down a hallway to one of several studios, and John watched from the sidelines as two men, late twenties, artsy types, and a woman who couldn't be more than twenty, with wild red hair piled on top of her head and a sleeve full of tattoos, greeted him. Another man, dressed in black, slightly paunchy and with a full beard, came in and Sherlock gravitated towards him, getting into a deep discussion as the man sat behind the mixing board and began fiddling with an endless array of knobs.

"Hey there." John looked up and saw the redhead smiling at him, her neon locks even more vibrant close up. "I'm Nikki." She said, reaching out to shake his hand. She had an American accent and a tongue ring. "One of Sherlock's writers on this project. Think we may finally finish the song we started months ago." She giggled. "Those two are Robbie and Benson. I'm so jazzed to get to work with them. You know, they've been working on the new Gaga record? But don't tell anyone I said that." She winked, and John gave a brief nod to the two men as they cast him a curious glance from Sherlock's side. John wondered if he was supposed to know who this Gaga person was and if he should have been impressed? "And you would be?"

"Uh, I'm John. John Watson."

"Oh, another Brit, eh? You two related or something?" She drifted her gaze back to Sherlock, who was now watching them out of the corner of his eye, while trying not to be too obvious about it.

John laughed. "No. I work for Sherlock. I'm sort of like an assistant."

"Ah. Well welcome John. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

She smiled coyly before walking back to join her colleagues, and John felt his cheeks warm a bit; it had been ages since he'd spoken to a pretty woman (one who didn't want to kidnap him) and it felt nice. No, it felt damn good. Sherlock was now glaring daggers at him and John shot him a look before flopping back onto a sofa pushed up against a brightly painted wall.

"Alright, alright, are we finally ready to roll on this bitch or what?" A loud, obnoxious voice cut through the air and everyone in the room turned as a short, greasy looking man entered the room. He made a beeline for Sherlock, and spoke in a tone that said he knew an argument was coming and he wasn't going to have it. "Now, I finally heard back from Kendrick Lamar's people, and he liked what we sent over to him, and while he hasn't said yes officially, I think we can secure him for a feature." He smiled a self-satisfied smirk and John watched as an incredible fire built behind Sherlock's narrowed eyes.

The others, sensing this was coming, had all skittered away, fiddling with this and that and trying to stay out of the blast radius.

"I told you Anderson, I do not want a rap feature. While I respect the inherent artistry of the genre, it is not something I feel works with the music I want to make."

"But the label thinks..."

"I do not care about cracking the urban market!" Sherlock spat, and with a huff he leapt from his rolling chair, the motion sending it flying across the room, and stormed from the studio. "When will any of you have an iota of originality instead of being a bunch of lemmings playing follow the leader?!" He yelled, as the door swung shut behind him.

"Spoiled brat." Anderson mumbled to the engineer, but he continued adjusting the levels and ignored him until Anderson too dumped his belongings on a table and fled the room as well.

The rest of the recording session was uneventful; there were a few heated discussions about lyrics and the shitty state of pop music, but mostly John watched Sherlock through the glass as he sat in the other side of the studio, at his piano, and tinkered with a melody. An overhead mic sat at just the right level to sing into, and the writers spent most of their time popping in and out, adjusting things, scribbling on his sheet music, and gesturing vaguely, before they ran out and gave the nod to the engineer, who was ready to roll tape.

They breezed through several takes, each one better than before. Sherlock's voice was effortless--even better live which few artists could boast--and the song had some impressive notes in the chorus which he nailed with ease. God, he was just so good. John felt himself leaning forward off the sofa, further and further after every take, as if an invisible string was pulling him closer to Sherlock. Sherlock flicked his eyes up from the piano, right in the middle of hitting a rather gut punching note, and made direct eye contact with John. Neither one looked away and suddenly that electric spark that had been there at the beginning was back, crackling.... until someone plopped down next to him, too close, and effectively ruined the moment.

"It's what we like to call a midtempo." Anderson said, apropos of nothing. "We were very lucky to get Nikki and the guys together for this. They are some of the hottest up and comers in town." He smiled at John and all he could think of was his impressive similarity to a rat. "Anderson, Capitol A&R." He sniffed, as if this should impress John. He had no idea whether Anderson was his first or last name, but he didn't actually care.

"Nice to meet you. I'm John."

The man didn't seem to care much who John was and continued blustering on; he spoke at length about his duties at the label and all the hits he had been responsible for. John tuned him out after a few minutes, and when Sherlock made eye contact with him again, his brow furrowing, John subtly tilted his head in Anderson's direction and made a big show of rolling his eyes, which seemed to amuse Sherlock, and he cracked a beautiful smile.

"I was surprised he even showed up today." Anderson cut into his thoughts again. Would it be incredibly rude to get up and walk away, John thought? He shifted uncomfortably. "I can't even tell you how much studio time, and money, has been wasted by Sherlock blowing off his sessions."

What could he say to that? "Yeah, uh, he's been busy."

Anderson snorted. "Sure. Busy. Busy partying it up along the strip. But the partying, eh, that's normal popstar behavior, you know? Even the most goody two shoes in the biz let loose from time to time. What I don't get is how his work ethic has gone to shit this time. You know he wrote his whole last album? Yea, the kid is good. But his head is just," He made a spiraling gesture with his hand. "Off in space this time around. I don't think he's contributed anything this time around, and yet he poo poo's ninety percent of what the writers bring to him. Not that we've actually managed to get much of anything done." He blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head.

John's curiosity was peaked. "How many songs has he gotten done so far?"

Anderson shot him a look. It was bleak. "All I will say is we are behind, very, very behind, though the label's official word is that everything is moving on schedule."

The session wrapped at about two in the morning; they all seemed rather pleased with the results of the night, and as they said their goodbyes, Nikki bounded up to John and gave him a big hug, exchanged numbers, and told him to give her a ring sometime if he was bored and needed someone to show him the town, or get a drink with. Sherlock rolled his eyes and left for the waiting car, leaving him to catch up.

"Well I think that went well, don't you? I think you've got a hit on your hands." John smiled, as he slid in the seat next to Sherlock. "Can't get that chorus out of my head."

"Your musical frame of reference stops at 1985. What would you know?"

"I know catchy, and that was catchy. You also sang the hell out of it. I mean, wow."

John could see the beginning of a smile reflected in the darkened car window. "Thank you."

"Those guys really wrote you a hell of song there, didn't they? That Nikki girl is very talented."

Sherlock stiffened. "Yes. You two sure got on like a house on fire, didn't you?"

John wasn't sure how to respond to that. If he didn't know any better, he would say Sherlock almost sounded jealous. But that was insane, wasn't it? They barely knew each other. Sherlock barely wanted to spend time in his presence. The moment had grown awkward, like so many moments between them, so John backpedaled.

"Yeah. Well, anyways, I just wanted to say that I think what you all made in there was really great. Consider me impressed."

There was no smile this time, instead Sherlock looked downright miserable. "It's not what I want to say." He sighed, staring out the window.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure I watched a documentary about the Sunset Sounds studio before. I have to check, but if I'm right it had Dave Grohl and stuff in it and it was really good, worth checking out if it's on Netflix or something.


	12. Interlude: Tom & Lorenzo

**TOM + LORENZO**

**_Fabulous & Opinionated_ **

**STYLE FILE FLASHBACK: Sherlock Holmes Has a Flair For The Dramatic At The Met**

**Originally Posted May, 8 2016**

 

We're struck with two thoughts at Sherlock Holmes' look from this year's Met Gala. 1) When did Sherlock get so smokin' hot? And 2) Was he supposed to be cosplaying famed literary detective Sherrinford Doyle with that hat and that--bedazzled!--magnifying glass, held aloft like some sort of pimp cup? All that's missing to complete this look is the trusty live in boyfriend, Wilson. (Oh, yea we went there. They were lovers. Get over it people.)

 

The theme of the Gala was 'Mystery' and while Sherlock's fashion choices are usually a little too on the nose for our tastes (pop star + leather pants= yawn), this was an event where he could let his tendency for flamboyant costumery run wild and we had no problem with it.

 

The dramatic coat, the windswept hair, the collar turned up to highlight his cheekbones just so?

 

Sherlock is serving a _lewk_ and for once we have nothing negative to say.

 

The coat is the star of the show: a long and sweeping custom made wool number from British luxury apparel company Belstaff. It has the look of being distinctly classic, upper crust, I-went-to-Harrow posh, while still giving us something that feels fresh. We'd love to see this silhouette in different fabrics and colors. A bit heavy for May's warm temperatures, but it surely kept him warm in the path of Anna Wintour's icy gaze.

 

That hat needs to go though.

 

Overall a stunningly good effort for the British singer at his first Met Gala, and dare we say it, we wouldn't be mad if he worked that coat into his regular clothing repertoire.

 

Gosh, we don't think we've ever written something so complimentary about Sherlock Holmes. The fan girls in the comments won't know what to do with themselves! Congrats darling! You've arrived!

**Style Credits:** Belstaff Coat/ Burberry Deerstalker Cap/ Burberry Prorsum Shirt

Vivienne Westwood Trousers/ Burberry Prorsum Shoes/ Swarovski Magnifying Glass

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone not familiar, this is a real fashion blog, run by two gay men, who are fun and snarky.


	13. A Night On The Town

Sherlock was beyond frustrated. The weeks passed, the studio sessions came and went, and John continued to follow him around like a puppy, keeping him from partying, or otherwise getting sidetracked. This had resulted in a noticeable downtick in negative press, which would have been good had Sherlock actually cared about things like that. Mycroft seemed pleased though, and a happy Mycroft was a less annoying Mycroft, so perhaps John as his shadow wasn't completely without its merits.

But no matter how good Sherlock was, no matter how he attended each and every session as promised, and did his duty like a good little popstar, a part of him wanted to tell everyone to piss off, become unfindable for the foreseeable future and figure out how the hell he was going to fix this problem.

The music was still not coming to him, and the clawing, gnawing anxiety over it had pushed him into full out panic mode. He was not used to this; looking inside himself and finding nothing. Since he was a child the music had just poured out; his parents and teachers assumed he was some sort of prodigy, and maybe he was, but it wasn't simply that he was good at music, it was an outlet for him unlike anything he'd ever known. Sherlock had been a sensitive and overly emotional child, and the act of channeling his feelings into music gave him peace from the complicated feelings he didn't know how to process. When life didn't make sense, music did. Like a dancer who didn't have to think about what was next--their body just knew the steps--Sherlock knew his way around a song, and it never, ever failed him. Until one day, it did.

What had been so easy, so taken for granted, was gone, and Sherlock had nothing left but the buzzing of a million thoughts and emotions, battling for dominance, and an angry label who wanted their next hit album and wanted it now. He was also left to think about.... other things. Things that had taken him by surprise.

Out of all the emotions he now had no control over, the ones he felt for John were the worst. His initial attraction to the man had grown into a full-blown crush, and he wasn't sure what to do with that. He hadn't felt anything remotely romantic for anyone in ages. Out gay males in pop music, if not unheard of, were rare, and he'd been burying that part of himself for years, even if occasionally he'd toyed with the idea of pushing the closet door open.

Sherlock liked having John around too; he was kind and genuine in a way that most people weren't, and he seemed unaffected by L.A and just as exasperated with the industry types he'd met. He made a mean cup of tea that reminded Sherlock of home, and while his jumpers were hideous, he had the cutest crinkles when he smiled, and the sweetest laugh, and when he came home, sweaty from a run, with his t-shirt sticking to him in all the right places, it was... good. It was very good.

John also never stopped trying to engage Sherlock, and even though Sherlock had yet to open up to him, he didn't seem to mind the stone wall of resistance he was met with. He took to chattering along about anything and everything, whether Sherlock seemed to be listening or not. He was always listening, though he pretended not to be. John talked about everything from the weather, to rugby, to his days in the RAMC, to play by plays of hilarious cat videos he'd seen on Youtube. It was... nice. He also never called that Nikki woman, which was another check in his favor.

Yes, Sherlock was attracted to John Watson, and every day it got a little worse, just like his music block. Great. Wonderful.

He stared at the piece of blank sheet music, and pressed his pencil so hard into it that the nub broke and rolled off the piano. He wanted to rip everything that he'd managed to write down today into little pieces--it was rubbish anyways--and smash his violin, and perhaps burn his piano out on the back lawn. He could roast some marshmallows and enjoy the American delicacy of s'mores. This defect of his wasn't going away, and pushing it like this was just a waste of his time.

Today had been a bad day; it started at a label meeting in which a table full off suits shouted at him about "planning the launch strategy for an album that's not even half done yet" and progressed to someone slapping down a copy of the L.A Times, where an interview he had done months ago had been turned into some sort of 'should we have seen this coming?' hack job suitable for lining litter boxes everywhere, and had completely twisted his words.

Sherlock had fumed so hard that even John gave him space, and he deleted several emails from God knows who about a party in Malibu, in favor of sulking on the sofa in his favorite ratty pajamas until he'd moved over to sulk at the piano instead.

"This is impossible!" He growled, banging into the keys with his fists, and threw the piles of useless sheet music across the room till the floor crunched under his feet. Back to the sofa it was, but he stopped off first at the mantle, popped open a wooden box that sat on top of it, and grabbed what was inside.

The only thing he'd ever found that quieted his mind a fraction of the way music did, were illicit substances. They weren't the same, but did the trick in a pinch. Mostly depressants, like alcohol or weed, would be the substance of choice to help slow things down a bit, but lately he had found that cocaine did the same thing, and gave him a burst of energy when he was out at the clubs. When he'd do a line of coke the music also seemed to speak to him more and the lights made the most interesting shapes on the walls.

Everyone in the biz did cocaine recreationally. It wasn't a big deal. It was only a big deal if you didn't know how to handle it and let it get out of control.

Ok, there had been a few nights where things got a little out of control and made the papers, but it wasn't always his fault. And it wasn't like he did it often; raging drug problems were for boring people and he was not a boring person. So there.

It was a shame then that he was out of his stash, and his go to guy was being heavily monitored by his bastard of a brother. This would have to take the edge off instead.

'BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!'

A shower of plaster sprayed from the wall, sending pieces ricocheting across the room, and Sherlock aimed his handgun a bit higher, seeing if he could spell out "fuck off Mycroft" in bullets. He got as far as the F when both Mrs. Hudson and John came barreling around the corner, ducked down and covering their ears. They spoke at the same time:

"Sherlock, we just got the walls fixed and look what you go and do! I don't know how Mycroft keeps the cops from showing up at your door but one day you're going to need them and they won't come!"

"Bloody buggering fuck Sherlock!! Jesus Christ what the fuckity fuck are you fucking doing? Have you lost your bloody mind?! Holy bloody fucking shit!"

Sherlock smiled. "I didn't think you were capable of such colorful language John."

John exhaled a large breath, surveying the damage. All the color had drained from his face. "You'd be surprised. Remember, I was in Afghanistan. That was nothing. Also, probably another reason not to be shooting off any firearms without some warning, you know?" His eyes were blazing.

Shit. Probably not a good idea to startle the former soldier with PTSD.

"I apologize John. I wasn't thinking. It won't happen again."

John was briefly surprised that Sherlock had apologized. "Uh, ah, yes. Right then. Thank you. Now why the hell do you have a gun and why were you shooting it at your wall?!" He was at Sherlock's side in an instant, and ripped the gun from his hand, disengaging the clip and setting it on the table with shaky hands.

Sherlock flopped down on the sofa and stretched out languorously until his shirt rode up, giving a nice view of his belly button. "Stress reliever John. You should try it sometime. The guns here are cheap and plentiful and so easy to get you have no idea."

John looked at him as if he'd grown a second head and laughed.

"You're a mad man."

******

A few nights later, Sherlock's isolation from the world started to get to him; the studio session for the day had been scrapped on account of the writer he'd been working with getting stuck at the airport in Denver, and was rescheduled, leaving Sherlock with a free night for the first time in ages. He suspected that he had been tightly booked to prevent the siren call of L.A. nightlife from stealing him away, and though he didn't miss some of the lowlier aspects of a night out (the sweaty crowds, the paparazzi, the ceaseless yammering of people trying to impress him), he needed a night out among the living more than he liked to admit.

John was curled up on the sofa, the TV humming softly in the background, and though it made him feel a bit childish to be sneaking out of his own house, he had showered, changed, and positioned himself to make his getaway. He had it timed down to the exact second, and when he finally heard the subtle shift in John's breathing, he made a beeline for the door. It was imperative that Sherlock made his exit right in that perfect window of time between when John's head drooped in a doze, to when his chin hit his chest and he jerked back awake.

His hand was right on the doorknob, seconds from freedom, when he heard John's sleepy voice drift from the other room.

"Where are we going?"

Fuck. Maybe if he was truthful he would be pardoned from his cell for the night? "Out. To a concert. The 1975 are playing a set at the Whisky. It's a private, invite only party." Sherlock stepped back to preen in the hall mirror. He looked good.

"Is that a tribute band?"

"What?"

"You know, music from 1975 and whatnot?"

"How is it possible to be this out of touch?" Sherlock bit his lip to hold back a laugh. "It's an English band. Indie rock, electropop sort of stuff."

"Nope, never heard of them. Sorry. Just gimme five minutes and I'll be ready to go." John's voice traveled as Sherlock heard him get off the couch and go into the kitchen. There was a clatter of dishes in the sink and the sound of him puttering around.

Sherlock froze; technically it was his job to tag along, since Sherlock apparently could not be trusted even for one bloody night, and lately the idea of spending time with John was a good thing for various _reasons_ , but there was something about letting him into that part of his world that didn't sit well with him.

"What? No. You can't come."

"Too bad." John's voice carried down the hall. "Mycroft's rule. If you want to go out on the town, then I go with. Simple as that."

"Jooooohn." Sherlock whined; he could feel the frustration building in him, and had to shove his hands into his pocket so he didn't pull at his hair and ruin the good thirty minutes he'd spent taming his curls into submission.

"Don't whine, it's unattractive." John ambled down the hall, looking down as he picked at the crumbs of a biscuit lodged in his jumper. "You could always stay in and watch Cupcake Wars with me." He grinned teasingly.

"As tempting as that sounds, I'll pass."

"Suit yourself." John shrugged. "Let me just find my shoes here and..."

"You can't come John."

"Sherlock..."

"It will be noisy and crowded, with music from this century and therefore totally not your scene. Besides, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't even let you in the door wearing that." Sherlock sniffed.

"What?' This?" John looked down and brushed the remaining crumbs off his jumper.

Sherlock snorted. "Here in L.A. John, appearances are everything. What you wear tells the world what they should know about you. And what you're wearing is saying 'grandpa up past his bedtime'".

John's brow wrinkled adorably. "I like my jumpers! It's my style."

"It's hardly a _style_."

"They're cozy!"

"L.A is not the place for cozy jumpers, John."

"Oh, but it's the place for that.... thing!" John flapped his hand in the direction of Sherlock's coat, and it's dark, dramatic lines, and heavy wool. Ok, so maybe it was a bit much, but it did get chilly at night.

"This is designer. Designer, John. A gift from a designer, made especially for me for last year's Met Gala. Hardly comparable."

"Oh really? And what was the theme of the gala? Poncy twats?"

Sherlock tried his best do look affronted, but it was pointless. Two seconds later both had dissolved into laughter so hard that they both gripped the wall to stand upright.

"I'm impressed you even know what the Met Gala is."

"I get around." John winked.

Reluctantly, John agreed to change, and when he came downstairs ten minutes later in a pair of tight, dark denim and a simple white t-shirt that hugged his chest and flaunted his broad shoulders perfectly, Sherlock simply nodded his approval, aware that if he'd opened his mouth to say anything it would have come out as an undignified squeak.

A relatively short cab ride later, they found themselves in a tightly packed room, pushing through the crowd as they worked their way up towards the stage. The band had already begun their set, and the place was pulsing with hot, sticky energy. A song or two in, John leaned over and whisper-yelled in Sherlock's ear, "This sounds like eighties music! I like it!" and from that moment on he was lost in the performance. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye as he did some sort of adorable half sway, half hopping dancing, and by the time a few more songs had passed, Sherlock realized he'd spent more time watching John than the band.

It wasn't as awkward as he thought it would be, having John inside his orbit like this. Being in his home, involved in other aspects of his life, well that was one thing, but bringing him to the place where he let loose--sometimes a bit too loose--was another. To let John see him like this, using the lights and the noise (and ok, a few shots) and the energy of the crowd to drown out his mind, was a huge step. Not that John knew what was happening, of course, but Sherlock felt it just the same. Overall it was a tamer version of his usual outings; there were none of the usual suspects pushing various mind-altering substances at him, and none of the sheltered privacy of the VIP area where anything went, but it was nice. Wholesome almost. And it was working; his head was momentarily clear and that's all that mattered.

The crowd let out a raucous whoop as the band launched into one of their more well-known songs, and Sherlock took advantage of John's current distracted state to slip back to the bar. Thankfully the Whisky was one of the few establishments left in town that didn't have its bartenders paid off to refuse him, and he took advantage of it.

The bar was packed, and he was accosted by several people who wanted to chat, take selfies, or buy him a shot. He didn't refuse the shots, for that would be poor form indeed, and after slamming back a Jaeger Bomb or two (absolutely vile) he stumbled his way back to John, pleasantly buzzed.

It was unbearably hot; the sea of bodies gave off heat like a furnace, and that, plus the warmth of alcohol coursing through his veins, made him a bit dizzy. He leaned in to say something to John, but stopped himself as he saw a beat of sweat trickle from John's hairline and down the curve of his neck. Had he turned at that precise moment, he would have seen the naked longing in Sherlock's eyes. Instead he was blissfully unaware, hollering his enthusiastic praise as the band finished its last song.

"That was amazing!" John turned, a bit breathless, and his face was so close. The way the stage lights made his eyes sparkle was too much to take. Sherlock was so fucking screwed. Without preamble, Sherlock turned and made his way back to the bar for another drink, leaving John standing there, watching him disappear into the crowd.

***

The two of them stumbled back home; John was pretty drunk after being plied with free drinks by virtue of being in Sherlock's company, even though he had initially refused the idea of drinking "on the job", and Sherlock, well he was just straight pissed, though he was always pretty good at keeping it together. In all his years of celebrity, Sherlock was used to the look on people's faces when they realized what perks associating with him would get them, and never once that night, even though people had been fawning over John to get to Sherlock, did he get that look. In fact, if anything, he seemed put off by the attention. It was refreshing.

They headed back to the house well after midnight, but neither were the least bit tired. Well, Sherlock wasn't. He was in that weird state after a night out where he still had a reserve of pent up energy wanting to be expelled, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to dance, shoot the walls, or go running around the block screaming at the top of his lungs. John, however, simply had a glassy look in his eyes and all he seemed to want to do was eat.

"I am such a shit babysitter." John giggled as they burst through the front door. "Don't tell Mycroft ok? We can't let him know." He mock whispered, swaying into Sherlock and bumping his nose into his shoulder.

"Fuck Mycroft." Sherlock snorted.

"You seem to say that a lot."

"We all must speak our truths, John."

John giggled and waved his hand in the air as he disappeared down the hallway. "Too true. Too true. God, I am bloody starving!"

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and ran into the living room; his body itched to keep the night going, to keep John by his side in this hazy, giddy glow, and he had the perfect idea. A few minutes later he had managed to get the record player out, plugged in and ready to play. John was in the kitchen, making a god-awful amount of noise, when Sherlock dropped the needle. The sound was a little scratchy at first--the record was second hand and not in the best condition--but when the notes of the first song floated into the air a resounding laugh echoed from the kitchen.

John popped his head into the living room; there was a banana in his hand and his eyes were squinted in that specific, drunken way. "No fucking way!" He laughed, a bit too loudly, and lifted the banana to his mouth and took a bite. Sherlock watched with far too much interest until he physically had to shake himself. Christ, he was drunk.

"Living in the limelight!" John sang out, not coming anywhere in the neighborhood of the right notes, and shuffled over to the sliding glass door that opened out into the back patio, and slid it wide open. "The universal dream!" He continued as he stumbled over the lip of the door and went outside. Sherlock was pretty sure his neighbors wouldn't appreciate the dulcet tones of a drunk John singing Rush songs in the middle of the night, but it made for an amusing picture.

Twenty minutes later, and halfway through the Moving Pictures album, the two were spread out on a pair of chaise lounges by the pool; the night was chilly, the cushions damp with dew, and the strains of music wafted across the yard, a bit quieter farther from the house.

"My Dad loved this album. Played it to death every time he got into one of those moods. You know, one of those 'my life didn't work out exactly the way I planned and now it's time to escape' moods." John looked wistfully upwards, as a hand scratched at his stomach. "So basically, every bloody day."

"Mmm." Sherlock replied, his head lolling to the side to stare at John.

"I really liked that band tonight Sherlock. La la la la somebody else..." John sang, completely ignorant of the lyrics.

"You're not very good at carrying a tune."

"No, but you are. You're... amazing."

There was nothing insincere about John in that moment; he looked at Sherlock with an undisguised mix of awe and affection, and Sherlock felt his heart stutter in his chest. He took in John's mussed hair and lazy smile and it hit him like a wave, loud in his ears with the urgency of it. Sherlock wanted to tell him everything, and as the words started to pour out, he wondered why he hadn't done it sooner.

"Carrying a tune is all I'm good at anymore it seems. I'm.... blocked."

"Blocked? Like...you're constipated?"

John burst out into drunken giggles and Sherlock fixed him with a look. "I'm being serious John."

"Oh, right. Yes, sorry. Go on."

"I can't write a thing. Not a chord, not a melody, not even a damn lyric. It's been this way for months. The place in me where a million songs used to live is now a gaping black hole."

"Yeah, Anderson may have mentioned how you didn't write anything for this album. In comparison to the last."

"Anderson is a knob." Sherlock pouted.

John laughed in agreement, and then said in a more serious tone. "Is that why the album is behind?"

"Yep." He replied, popping the P. "The label said it didn't matter. They said they could set me up with the best songwriters in the game. Most popstars don't write their own material after all. But I am not most popstars." Sherlock sniffed, as if the mere notion was ridiculous.

"You sure aren't." John smiled at him, and Sherlock wondered if he was aware of just how much he was giving away on that damn expressive face of his. For the first time in years, Sherlock was acutely aware someone's eyes on him; he was used to the world watching him, judging him, so why was being the sole center of John's attention so unnerving?

"Well, when I make music I want to say something specific. I find that others can't tell the story that's inside me, no matter how much they try, and now I can't tell it either. It's hateful."

"I'm so sorry Sherlock."

Looking at John was too much. He turned his focus downward, playing with the cuffs of his shirt. "It's why I've been indulging more than I should. Going too far. I find it helps me to forget. It helps to turn off the shouting in my head."

"Shouting? You hear voices?" John sounded worried. Perhaps it hadn't been the best description to use to an ex-soldier with PTSD who was intimately familiar with the mental toll of war.

"No need for a psych referral Doctor Watson. I'm just being colorful here. Since I was a kid I've had a hard time with many..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. He sighed dramatically. "You don't know what it's like to possess a great mind."

"Oh thanks."

"You know what I mean John. You're reasonably intelligent, I grant you, but you don't know what it's like to have a brain that moves at a speed others don't. That charges ahead of you whether you want it to or not. Full of ideas and emotions and things that are so loud, so insistent, it's overwhelming." Sherlock swallowed; he couldn't look at John, though he desperately wanted to. He didn't want to see a shred of pity in those blue eyes. Or worse, the expression he had seen on so many faces when he was a kid, before he'd found music. The barely disguised disgust of someone who was different. "My parents had me tested when I was younger. I was an unusual child, putting it lightly. In the end, all they found was a kid with genius level intellect and a lot of feelings and no way to express them. And then I found music. Music was my medicine John. It kept me sane, on an even keel, and after I found it I was just like everyone else."

John snorted. "You could never be like everyone else Sherlock. I don't think you'd want to be either. It would be a disservice to the world and a damn shame."

Sherlock felt warm from the praise. "Well, on the outside at least. I was functional. I was happy. I'd found a purpose. Something that tethered me to the world. And then a few months ago it all stopped working." He sunk lower into the chair and scrubbed a hand through his curls. "I can't create. I can't become inspired. I listen to music and I feel nothing. It feels like something died in me and I don't know why and I don't know how to get it back, and I can't control anything anymore"

"Shit. I don't know what to say."

It wasn't eloquent, or the answer to his problems, but it was honest. There was a black hole of honest people in his life. "You don't need to say anything. Just having you listen is enough."

"I know it's not the same, but I know what it feels like to feel broken. To go to bed whole and the next day wake up to a world where everything you knew about yourself was a lie."

"Afghanistan." Sherlock said quietly. It wasn't a question. He looked up and resumed watching John; his jaw was set and his eyes had a sadness around them. He simply nodded.

"You were shot and discharged home without a sense of purpose or sense of self. You were no longer a soldier or able to be a surgeon, and felt lost. You went through the motions, wondering if it was even worth it to continue on."

"You're doing that thing again you know."

"I'm... sorry?"

"Don't be. It's amazing." John smiled and caught his eye. The moment seemed to stretch out in front of them, pulled tight with some unspoken tension.

"I know we haven't known each other long and there's so much more to learn, but you need to know John that you are so much more than an archetype. The soldier. The surgeon. You are a good man with a good heart who moved across the world to help a stranger. You tell yourself that it's the love of excitement, of danger, and on some level, that will always motivate you, but more than anything it's because you are a good man, John Watson."

John blinked, momentarily taken aback. "And you are more than a popstar Sherlock. You're more than a song on the radio or a photo in a tabloid."

Sherlock bit his lip to stop the surely embarrassing smile that threatened to spill across his face.

"I, uh, feel like we should hug or something. Should we hug?" John looked awkward now, and it was adorable. He sat up and scratched at the back of his neck. Apparently, they were both drunk enough for not only heartfelt late-night chats but physical affection.

"Um. Ok."

Sherlock's heart beat like a drum in his chest, and his arms fluttered nervously at his sides as he stood. John inched closer, and after a moment of indecision as to whose arms should go where, followed by a bout of nervous, drunken giggles, John said "come e're" and hooked an arm around his neck, pulling him close. Sherlock buried his nose into the collar of John's shirt, taking in the smell of sweat and the lingering scent of his cologne, even though the angle was a bit odd due to their height difference, and he had to stoop over quite a bit.

I could spend forever just like this, Sherlock thought, warm and safe, pressed up against John, and forgetting the rest of the world and the problems that plagued him. He wanted to dig his fingertips into the warm flesh and never let go, but he knew that would probably be a bit not good. The real world was not going to go away though, and after a few silent moments, John cleared his throat softly.

"It will all be ok Sherlock. I know it will."

Sherlock pulled back to look down at him, and in that moment, with John so close, smiling so sincerely, and those bloody blue eyes doing things to him, he let the first instinct of his booze addled brain take over, and he swooped in and kissed him.

For seconds, or minutes, he wasn't sure, it was pure bliss. John's lips were soft and pliant, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he was kissing back or not, but he was too far gone to care. Like someone had flipped off a switch, all the noise in his mind was silenced. All that was left was the gentle thud of his heart and the clarity he'd been longing for.

This was it, this was the answer to all his problems: John Watson.

He finally felt at peace. He felt like he could churn out a symphony. He felt... hands pushing him away.

"Sherlock... stop."

John had a hand pressed to Sherlock's chest, keeping him at a more respectable distance, and he looked shocked. Time seemed to be moving slower than normal, and it took until John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to snap him out of his daze. His eyes widening in horror at the realization of what he had done, and how John had reacted, made him reel back as if he'd been slapped in the face. What a fool he was!

The noise grew again and he shook his head, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. How could he be so stupid? He had to get out of there, so he turned on his heel and fled to the sound of John calling after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Somebody Else' by the 1975 is one of my favorite songs and I had to sneak it in somewhere. And yes John it DOES sound like eighties music!


	14. Interlude: Blind Gossip

**CRAZY DAYS AND NIGHTS**

**March 15 th, 2017**

**Blind Item # 7**

This A+ list, foreign born singer is closeted, and their publicist has

taken it upon themselves to push a false narrative in the press about who

they might be dating. This is hardly shocking, as it's done all the time in

the biz, but this rogue publicist's client has had a lot of bad press to contend

with lately, so heading off any gay rumors is simply a proactive move.

**10 comments**

**LisaM**

t's totally Harry Styles. Larry is real. We all know

**Troy15**

 Ummm boy or girl? Nikki Minaj? Isn't she like bi or something?

**Erika B.**

MENDES IS SOOOO GAY IT'S HIM

**Frankie199**

Guys the blind says the singer has had a lot of bad press. I think it's

Sherlock Holmes. The dude is a mess now and he's always pinged my

gaydar.

**Troy15**

            Oh! Good catch. Ya I agree with u on that.

 **Annabella**  

           Ah yassss Sherlock. Isn't he like with his backup dancer?

 

**Ben**

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

**Chris**

Taylor Swift. She's dating one of her 10000 model chick pals

**Traceyy92**

My heart wants Larry but he's not having bad press so um its

Probably Sherlock. But YAWN. I don't like him.

**Martin75**

Every popstar is gay who cares let them all be out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All those commenters are seriously terrible at guessing, aren't they?


	15. The Day After

John reached over and groped for his phone that had gotten buried under his pillow, and turned off the alarm. He looked at the time and saw that it was well after noon and he'd managed to sleep through his alarm for hours. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry, and he remembered why he didn't drink as much as he used to do in Uni. His body simply couldn't handle it. With a grunt, he turned himself onto his back and laid there, staring up at the ceiling. He wished he had been drunk enough to forget what happened last night, but no. The moment was fresh in his mind.

Sherlock had kissed him. Sherlock was gay (or bi, or pan or who knows really?) and had kissed him right on the mouth. Just thinking those words was enough to make John laugh out loud in the quiet room.

Sherlock had finally opened up to him about what was going on in his life, and then he had kissed him. And then John had told him to stop and pushed him away and, "Oh God." John groaned, and flung his hands to his face as if to physically block out the memory, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes. What a bloody mess.

If John was honest with himself, he couldn't deny how he'd had the urge to kiss the smirk off Sherlock's face from time to time, and it's not as if the idea was inherently bad, it was just complicated. Sherlock was someone he worked for, who had been drunk and emotionally compromised, and surely his creepy older brother would skin him alive if he got a whiff of anything inappropriate going on. But Sherlock also was an adult, fully capable of making his own decisions, and last night he had been warm, and painfully sweet, and his kiss, while not the best he'd ever experienced (it probably would have been better if John had managed to kiss back instead of standing there like a statue), was full of passion and those plump lips... God. His stomach lurched at the thought of how good they had felt pressed against him, and at how good Sherlock had felt in his arms period. Sherlock was maddening in every possible way; he was immature, prone to laziness, whiney, but John found that being with him was the only thing capable of providing that same jolt of electricity he'd lost after coming home from Afghanistan.

Sherlock made him feel... alive again.

But John couldn't get lost down that road, not now, nor could he afford to hide out in his bed forever, no matter how tempting it was to burrow back into the warm sheets. He had to get out and confront this. He had to apologize and he wasn't sure. He just knew he had to talk to him.

He threw the covers back and got out of bed stiffly, working through his morning routine as slow as possible, before he was physically and mentally ready to face whatever he had coming. But the downstairs was quiet, only Mrs. Hudson was there, sipping tea and reading while curled up in the breakfast nook, and she gave him a knowing look as he walked into the room.

"Well don't you look like something the cat drug in, dear." She tutted at him, over a sip of her tea. "You and Sherlock were making quite the racket last night. Woke me up from a dead sleep with some rather interesting singing."

John grimaced. "Sorry about that. Speaking of which, you wouldn't, ah, have seen Sherlock this morning, have you? I really need to talk to him."

"No dear, I thought that was your job. Keeping tabs on him and all that."

John scratched the back of his head. "Ah, well, uh..."

Mrs. Hudson took pity on him and continued. "I was up at five this morning to go with Mrs. Turner to the farmer's market, and his bedroom door was wide open and he wasn't in, and I haven't seen him since dear. But I'm sure he'll be around sooner or later, you know how he is."

"Right. Right, thanks. I'm just going to, ah..." John excused himself without further explanation, and stalked off down the hall. Shit, it was very possible Sherlock had absconded right after the kiss and he'd had no idea. John hadn't gone after Sherlock, opting to give him space until the situation wasn't so raw, and now he regretted that decision. Sherlock could literally be anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. This was very, very bad.

John dashed to the front door, slipped on his shoes, grabbed the car keys and his phone, and dialed the one person he really did not feel like talking to: Mycroft.

 

***

"John, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft's smooth voice said over the line, just as imperious as ever, as John backed the SUV out of the drive, a little too fast to be safe.

"There's been a little, uh, problem and Sherlock took off."

"Have you checked his regular bolt holes?"

John zoomed down the street, attracting a few nasty stares from a few nasty stares from a couple walking their dog, and a group of gardeners doing landscaping on the neighbor's house, as he surely was violating any posted speed limit. 'I'm on my way now, but, um, I have reason to believe that he could be having one of those danger thingies."

"Danger time? Hmm, and why would you think that? My brother has been exceptionally well behaved lately."

'I don't know but he's just been in a mood. I just have a hunch is all."

There was a silence on the other end, loaded with tension, and for a moment John thought Mycroft was going to grill him, and if there was one person who could get him to crack, it was probably Mycroft. "Right. Well, as ever I trust your judgement. I will put out some feelers, see what I can find. My brother can be exceptionally predictable, but every once in a while, he does something we couldn't have anticipated. Slinks off to some place we've yet to have on our radar."

John slowed to a stop at a red light, his fingers drumming anxiously against the wheel. "Thanks Mycroft."

"John, is there anything you're not telling me?"

Ah, there it was. Mycroft was just as perceptive as Sherlock, if not more. John just hoped he could be believable. He did his best to keep his voice steady. "No. No, of course not."

"Good, well, you know I like to operate knowing all the facts. I'll be in touch."

Mycroft hung up without so much as a farewell, and John tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, slamming on the gas and headed for location number one on a long, long list of places Sherlock could possibly be.

***

John spent all day looking for Sherlock, scouring every bar, restaurant, club, hotel, high class clothing store, second hand clothing store, and even the organic vegan juice bar on Rodeo that Sherlock once called pretentious but had since visited regularly after becoming addicted to their vegan chocolate cake, but to no success. He made a few calls to various owners, bartenders, servers and the like of which he'd become chummy with since working for Sherlock, to see if any of them has seen him, but so far no one had. He was at an utter loss, and after an exhausting day driving over all of L.A, he sent a few texts to Sherlock, begging him to at least say he's ok, and headed back home.

By the time John was halfway down the street to the house, he was aware that something was going on. The street was lined with strange cars parked along the curb, and as he pulled up to the drive he saw that the gates were already sitting wide open (”Mycroft would be so pleased with this breech in security) and shadows of figures moved through the windows. When he threw the car into park and opened the door he was hit with the sound of laughter and thumping bass drifting in from the backyard.

Immediately he could feel his blood pressure rise; all this time John had been out, searching frantically for Sherlock, worried sick and feeling terrible about last night, he'd been here having a bloody party?!

John stomped into the house, pissed and ready to have some words with Sherlock, not giving a toss who was around. The kitchen was littered with strangers, most barely giving him a passing glance, and the backyard was full to bursting. It was a sea of people and red cups; they were sprawled out on the patio furniture, floating in the pool, and gathered into groups laughing and dancing, while wafts of a familiar sweet-smelling smoke came in through the sliding doors, which were all thrown open, letting the inside meld with the outside.

There was even a web of twinkling string lights crisscrossing the whole of the yard, casting it in a magical party glow, making it obvious this wasn't the first shindig held here. If John hadn't been so utterly furious, he would have been more than ready to enjoy what looked like an amazing party, but instead he searched through the crowd for a tangle of black curls, his whole body tense.

The splash of someone diving into the pool, combined with the sound of the front door opening, slamming into the wall, and a male voice with a heavy southern twang shouting out "Howdy, howdy! Let's get rowdy, rowdy!" like some sort of bad movie catchphrase, shook him out of his trance, and made him turn around to see Sherlock entering behind a rather handsome and very well sculpted man in what the Americans called a "wife beater" and a pair of cowboy boots.

Oh God, John thought, what fresh hell was this?

Sherlock had a smirk on his face which promptly melted the second he saw John leaning against the counter.

"Oh, no way! McMillian is here?!" The walking, talking cowboy said in disbelief. "That bastard, I can't believe he came!" He shouted and brushed past John without a glance, which seemed to be the normal reaction to his presence. Apparently, John wasn't even worth a first glance among this group of impossibly beautiful, and impossibly young people. The man continued out to the backyard, followed by a pretty girl with mocha skin and wild curls, and Sherlock made a move to follow as well, attempting to completely ignore John's presence.

"Hey, where the hell have you been?" John stepped directly in his path, thwarting him. "I've been worried sick."

It looked as if it pained Sherlock to acknowledge him, but he replied. "Out. I had pressing engagements."

"Oh, so I see. Had to spend hours picking up red cups for your party here and couldn't be arsed to let me know you were alive?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Look Sherlock," John dropped his voice, and took a step closer, ignoring the way it made Sherlock flinch. "If we could just, I don't know, go somewhere quieter and talk? I think that would be good."

"Talk about what? What possibly could we have to discuss?" Sherlock snapped coldly; his eyes were blank and held no recognition about what John was talking about.

Oh, so this was how it was going to be? Christ, John thought, he was taking what happened last night a lot worse than he'd hoped.

"I think you know what. Look Sherlock, I'm your friend here and I'm..."

"Oh John. I don't have friends." Sherlock laughed.

John blinked, looking around him. Clearly, he was missing something. "Well you could have fooled me."

Sherlock sneered. "Oh, John. A person in my line of work doesn't have friends. We have acquaintances, colleagues, frenemies, PR squad friends," he made a pair of air quotes and rolled his eyes. "Assistants, assistants to assistants, backup dancers, choreographers, stylists, miscellaneous people on the payroll, and assorted wannabes, hangers on and sycophants."

John wasn't sure how to reply to such a cynical outburst. Surely that wasn't true? "That's pretty sad actually. But it's not true you know? You have me Sherlock, I'm your friend."

If it was even possible, John could feel the chill coming off him.

"You're not my friend John. You're just another miscellaneous person on the payroll."

******

Sherlock sat with his feet dangling into the pool, nursing a beer and ignoring every one of his guests who made eye contact with him or tried to start up a conversation. It was painful just to have so many people over, making a mess and being generally annoying, and there was only a handful he found tolerable enough anyways. One of them was Henry, who was busy chatting with some friend of a friend Sherlock barely knew (it was obvious they were currently discussing him, going by the looks thrown his way, and surely this meant some other pointless drama was about to unfold) and the other, Sally, had disappeared shortly after they'd arrived.

He'd been uncomfortably aware of John's attention on him since their confrontation in the kitchen, and it took all his withering control not to just run away. Or go and kiss him senseless again. Christ, he was a mess. He took a pull of the now lukewarm beer and coughed, whoever brought this swill was officially never invited to another one of his parties again.

Sherlock wasn't sure where John had gone off too, it was too crowded to see, but he felt his presence regardless. Good, old John, always doing the noble thing. Protecting poor messed up Sherlock from himself and fending off his misguided, drunken advances.

He trailed a finger lightly against his bottom lip and wanted to scream. No matter what he did he could still feel John's lips against his, still taste him, and he wanted more. He wanted the feeling kissing John had given him. He wanted so much. Beside him his phone buzzed with a text:

 **Mycroft:** If you would be so kind as to tell me the reason for your little disappearing act today? John didn't go into it but I was not born yesterday brother mine. I know when something else is going on.

Sherlock growled, typed "fuck off" and turned off his phone. He was not in the mood.

***

The weeks passed and things did not get better. If anything, they grew more tense, though Sherlock was not actively trying to alleviate the situation. He remained cold and aloof, going to great lengths to avoid John and all the painful, complicated feelings being with him brought up, and when not speaking was impossible, he was purposefully cruel, deducing upsetting things from his past or making cutting remarks. He'd also taken to flaking out on his responsibilities again, refusing to attend any recording sessions, instead choosing to disappear without a word, returning home to a flurry of texts from Mycroft, Anderson, his producers, and the silent fury of John.

Sherlock knew he was being a brat, he knew it and hated it, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. His head was louder than it had ever been, and when he tried to sleep at night his thoughts crashed into each other, and seemingly made a physical whooshing sound inside him, as if he'd held a seashell up to his ears. He felt hopeless.

To counter this, he'd gone out every night, and after the first few times of sneaking around, he'd stopped caring, becoming blatant about where he was going and what he was doing. John hadn't tried to stop him, or even put up a fight, instead he simply would sigh in resignation, and follow Sherlock to whatever club he attended for the night, and hung around in case anything should go awry. John always remained invisible, but Sherlock knew he was there, and it somehow made things worse to have him so close, yet so far.

Tonight, had found him in a relatively new club on the strip, one whose name he didn't even recall, but it was Moroccan themed and exclusive as hell. Sherlock lounged in a circular cabana on a raised platform in the VIP section; it was full of brightly patterned cushions and partially obscured by gauzy curtains, and he was surrounded by his core group of back up dancers, otherwise known as the only people he could tolerate socially. Sally, Rebecca, Henry, Grayson, and Brett were spread out around him, chatting amicably, and playing with the gold hookah in the middle of the cabana.

"I feel like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland!" Rebecca exclaimed, blowing out perfect O shaped smoke rings, and Sally snorted.

"Whooo are youuuuu?" Grayson drawled, and then took a hit, blowing the smoke into the girls faces. They seemed to think that was especially hilarious, and Sherlock just rolled his eyes. Suddenly he felt a presence at his side, and he looked up, smiling in relief. Thank God, he had been waiting all day for this.

His regular supplier, a trust fund douchebag named Tristan, was still being monitored by his brother, but he'd stopped caring what his brother did or didn't know. Sherlock had sent him a text, and forty minutes later he was at his side, making small talk and slipping a little white Ziploc baggie into his hand as Sherlock slipped the corresponding amount of bills into his. He was debating whether or not he could snort it right at the table (his dancers never gave him shit, but lately Sally had taken to giving him a disapproving glance or two) or if he had to drag himself to the loo, when he felt a bump to his shoulder.

Henry was pressed up tight to his left side, and he had bumped him to get his attention. "So, riding the white pony again?" He asked, his dark eyes following Tristan's back as he left.

Sherlock gave him a tilted smile. "You're talking nonsense again Henry."

"It's slang for cocaine. It's like from the eighties or something. My Dad used to throw it around all the time."

"Your Dad had conversations with you about coke?"

Henry shrugged; his family was incredibly dysfunctional, but they made for some of the best stories, and Henry was always game to tell them. If there was any one of his dancers he tolerated more than the rest, it was him. "Well, you know he has his demons."

"Mmm, we all do." Sherlock nodded, slipping the baggie safely into his jacket pocket. It would have to wait, someone handed him the hookah and he took a puff, letting the smoke settle into his bones. It felt nice.

"So, I was talking to McMillian at your party..." Henry trailed off, stiffening slightly against him as if he was nervous.

"And?" Sherlock was bored of this already. Within any group, especially those in the biz, gossip was a way of life. It was secondary school bullshit and it was exhausting.

"He said you're dating Sally?" He sounded incredulous.

Sherlock snorted and looked over to Sally, who was chatting on her mobile, oblivious. Henry was one of the few who knew he was gay, in fact he was the first person he'd come out to, so he wasn't sure what he was getting at. "What? That's ridiculous."

"That's what I told him. Then he showed me all the shit online."

"You know not to trust that bollocks. You're not new." Sherlock replied rather peevishly, taking another hit of the hookah.

"He also said your publicist has been pushing all these stories on purpose."

Ah, so that was what he was getting at. Sherlock remained quiet. Jeanine had vaguely mentioned something months ago about "heading off nasty talk", but he'd ignored it. The last time they'd discussed anything remotely concerning his dating life was years ago, when he'd asked what would happen if he did come out, and her reaction had been enough to silence him on the idea. Since then he'd never dared to bring it up again and considered the subject closed. If she was pushing fake stories to the press, then he was unaware of it.

"It's possible. I honestly wouldn't know."

Henry giggled. "Lawd Jesus, please tell me you're not trying to do the whole bearding thing?"

"I'd hardly call it a bearding situation Henry. It's not like I hired Taylor Swift or something." He snorted. "If Jeanine is running stories about me shagging the Queen of England, then who cares? I don't comment on my personal life anyways and it's not as I haven't been branded straight from the beginning. Compulsory heterosexuality, straight until proven gay. I don't see a difference."

"Isn't silence being complicit though? What happened to what you told me last year? How you wanted to come out? And now you just don't care? You are totally cool with your publicist spreading hetero bullshit about you in the press?"

Sherlock groaned. "When I told you that I was... Really drunk. I mean yeah it would be great to come out but..."

"Then do it." Henry bumped him again and smiled. "We've all got your big gay back."

"It's not that simple Henry and you know that. Despite your overall charming country bumpkin persona, you didn't just fall off the so-called turnip truck. You know more than anyone how hard it is to be out in the biz."

Henry grabbed the hookah from him and fiddled with it for a moment. "Yeah it sucks but I'm just a dancer. They like almost require you to be a flaming homo." He giggled. "I guess I'm just disappointed is all." He took a long drag from the hose and Sherlock felt a sudden rage unfurl within him. Before the hookah had even left his lips, Sherlock let out a tirade.

"Well sorry to disappoint you Henry, but lately I have a bit more on my plate to think about other than whether or not my high school drop out of a backup dancer, with an incarcerated father, and an emotionally distant whore of a mother, thinks I am making a mistake by not telling the world at the height of my success that I would very much like to be buggered up the arse!" Sherlock spit venomously. He wasn't sure where all of that had come from, but the instant the words were out there, he regretted them. He was painfully aware he'd more than crossed the line and his head was throbbing.

Henry's face was so stricken with hurt, with betrayal, that Sherlock felt physically ill. Sherlock had snapped at him before, they'd had had plenty of rows through the years, but this was beyond any of them.

"Talk to me when you're ready to stop lying to the world." Was all he said, before gathering up his things and leaving. His abrupt exit made the rest of them fall silent and look at each other, wondering what in the hell they had missed.

Ugh. Sherlock stood up, made a frustrated grunt, and tore off towards the other side of the club. Sherlock was livid, at himself, at Henry, at his life, at everything and everyone. This was not what he needed right now, not after all the shit with his music and with John, and the emotions were just too much to fucking handle. This was one aspect of his life, while not ideal, had always been under control. It had been manageable, and he didn't need heart to hearts or guilt trips about it, no matter how well meaning they might be.

Never had he craved oblivion so much as he did right then, and he let his shame and righteous indignation lead him to the men's room, where after a brief stall check, he locked the door, took out a small pocket mirror, credit card, and his trusty twenty dollar bill. He dumped the baggie onto the mirror, cut it into equal lines, and began to snort.

 

******

 

John saw Sherlock storm off from where he'd been sitting at the bar, enjoying a soft drink and keeping an eye glued in the direction of the VIP area. The place was the epitome of Hollywood elitism, complete with a queue full of hip twenty-somethings hoping to get in, queued up around the block, and John had stuck out like a sore thumb among them. It was a new place, and John hadn't yet established a repore with the bouncers, so he was shocked when one of them had lifted the velvet rope and waved him through. "Mycroft." They said without fanfare and John nodded his head. Ah, well that made sense.

John had taken to following Sherlock around since everything had went to shit, like he was supposed to, but this time it was more "creepy stalker" and less "hired to be here" as he sat and watched whatever he could from yards away, taking great care to blend into the background as much as possible. John found that wasn't very difficult, especially in a place like this, teeming with beautiful people and a gaggle of women he was pretty sure were models.

He had been checking out a particularly striking brunette when he caught sight of another brunette whizz past in a blur. It was pointless to go to him, as there was no way Sherlock was going to do anything but ignore him, so he waited for Sally. She seemed to be the mother hen of their little group, always taking to or running after Sherlock for one thing or the other and mediating whatever arguments seemed to be going on, and without fail, there she was, scanning the room until her eyes met John's. He had never spoken to her before tonight, but as she made her way over, he knew that was about to change.

"Hey," She said breathlessly, pushing through the crowd to sidle up next to him. "John, right?" She looked unsure if that was his name, though she knew very well why he was there. Sally was every bit the Hollywood type. Young, beautiful, with kohl rimmed eyes, and a crop top showing off a sliver of toned belly.

John nodded. "I just saw Sherlock tear into the men's room if you were looking for him."

"Ah, yea. Thanks." She looked back in the direction Sherlock had run. "He'll probably be in there for a while. It's not the first time he's done this." She hopped up on an empty stool next to him.

"What happened?"

"Oh, I didn't really hear most of it, but it looked like he got into a row with Henry, and their rows are usually about one thing. Sherlock coming out. Specifically, Sherlock not coming out. I told Henry to give that shit a rest but he's gotten all socially aware lately, on this big "the world needs more out gay singers" tip, and likes to push him about it. Bloody annoying."

"Oh really?" John blinked. Shit. Maybe it was just paranoia, but he'd seen his sister melt down enough to know how throwing something unexpected into the mix could tip a situation from 'precarious' over into 'full blown disaster'.. A sort of vinegar in the baking soda volcano. He hoped to God all Sherlock was doing in that bathroom was taking a piss. He leaned around a rather bulky man to try and get a good look. The men's door was still closed.

"I mean, I assume because you two are, you know, that you know..."

John whipped his head back to her. Did she know? "We are... what?"

"Living together, working together. Whatever."

Oh, right. John let out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding, and leaned against the bar. "Well he hasn't exactly told me but..."

"Oh, shit. I probably shouldn't have said anything then." Her bright fuscia lips pulled into a grimace. "You don't seem surprised though."

"Well, no. I mean, it's not exactly surprising that someone in the entertainment industry is gay. Its more surprising if they're not I suppose." John remembered his sister saying that line in the past, when she'd gotten into a heated row with someone at the pub over whether or not an actor from their favorite television show was gay or not. It seemed an appropriate deflection.

Sally laughed. "Ain't that the truth. The press thinks me and Sherlock are an item, but little do they know." She winked and let her honey-colored eyes trail over to the group of models John had been checking out earlier.

Oh. "So, you're?"

"A lesbian? Yep. It''s not so much a big deal for the little people like us to be out, but it's still a big deal in the biz to have an actual "big name celebrity" be out." She made a pair of air quotes and shook her head. John wondered if he should offer up that he was bisexual, but he held back. It wasn't a piece of information he shared with everyone. "I could give you a whole list of guys and gals using beards right now. Drawn up contracts and everything. The lengths people go to keep in the closet in this industry are insane."

"A beard?"

"Yea you know, a man or woman you date to hide the fact you're not straight? It's been around since the beginning of time. Nasty business."

"Are you Sherlock's... beard then?"

Sally threw her head back and laughed so hard her curls bounced. "No. I don't go for that shit, and even if he asked me to I would say no. Got too much self-respect for that. Not that I think he would. Sherlock doesn't seem to care much what others think."

"You got that right." John nodded, his fingers drumming along to the generic techno beat thumping around the room. "I didn't know you were British." John said, grasping for something to say, and Sally looked at him as if he was slow.

"Yes. Just noticed, that did you?"

"It's just this is the first time we've ever spoken is all."

"Oh, right. Yea. I've actually known Sherlock since school and he likes to keep his inner circle tight, with people he's comfortable with." She fidgeted for a minute, then leaned closer. "Hey, look I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention to Sherlock what I, you know, let slip. It's not my place and..."

"I won't say anything. Besides we're not exactly on speaking terms anyways."

"I guess that explains the weird stalker vibe going on lately, you used to be attached to his hip. What happened? I thought you two were chummy?"

"It's... complicated."

Sally gave him a scrutinizing look, like she was trying to read all his secrets. He'd been told all his life that everything was readable on his face, so he looked away, pretending to watch the crowd. He debated telling her what happened, that Sherlock had kissed him and it ended badly, but decided she didn't really need to know.

"He doesn't want me around."

"Ah." Sally gave him a sympathetic smile. "He can be like that sometimes. He likes to push people away. He's not good with...stuff." She laughed. "Try not to take it personally though. He usually gets over it in time. Whatever happened just give him his space and wait. That's all you can do."

"Is wait." John echoed.

"Yep. Sherlock loves making people wait. He's the ultimate drama queen." She sighed and craned her neck to look over the crowd. The bathroom door was still shit but now there was a line of disgruntled looking men swarmed around it, and someone from security was pounding on the door, scowling.

"Oh, shit." Sally made to hop off the stool but stilled, watching as the door flung open and a disheveled Sherlock exited hastily, exchanging what looked like a few nasty words with the security guard, before stalking off towards the exit. Heads nearby swiveled around to watch it all go down and John groaned, knowing how this would surely be in every gossip column come morning.

"Well, there he goes. You want to handle it, or should I?"

"Let me. It's my job." It was more than a job though, and John knew it. Sherlock, despite everything, was a friend and right now John was genuinely worried, especially since Sherlock had looked seriously out of it there.

"Good luck!" Sally called after him as John dashed to the front door. He scanned the crowd as he went, but he was nowhere to be seen. He pushed out into the cool night air and looked up and down the sidewalk, past the people still queuing up to get in.

"If you're looking for you know who, he hopped in a cab." The bouncer from earlier was at his side now, and the look of worry on his face wasn't helping John's rising panic. "We had to help him in, the dude was real messed up. He could barely stand upright. Think he was on something. Pretty sure he gave the cabbie some address in the hills."

Shit. "Thanks, mate" John nodded at him and raced off to get the car.

***

The house was dark by the time John returned; Mrs. Hudson was out for the night, and there were no signs of Sherlock as he ran from room to room, but that didn't mean he wasn't there.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, taking the stairs two by two, headed for his bedroom. No reply came, but that didn't stop him from throwing his door open, and frantically looking around. There were no lights on, no discarded shoes, and the covers on the bed were still a haphazard mess as they always were, and he threw them back, checking to see if he'd crawled under them, but he wasn't there. "Sherlock?!" He called out again, this time a bit softer and paused. The place was dead quiet but after a moment, he heard it. It was faint, something that sounded like a moan, and coming from his ensuite bathroom.

John's heart lept up into his throat, and his whole body felt like it was moving in slow motion as he pushed open the bathroom door and flipped on the light. "Oh, shit. Oh no, Sherlock." John fell to his knees at Sherlock's side; he was curled into the fetal position, his head lying next to a pile of fresh vomit, his breaths coming in rapid and shallow and he was barely conscious.

"Sherlock, hey, I'm here, stay with me ok." Quickly John catalogued his condition: pallor, fever, tachypnea, elevated pulse, vomiting. He'd seen this collection of symptoms many times during his emergency medicine rotation and knew it was an overdose, cocaine being the most likely culprit. "Stay with me, I'm calling for help."

Sherlock moaned, and John gently stroked his forehead, pushing the damp curls back, as he called 911. He told the operator there was a suspected drug overdose, that he was a doctor, and updated him on the condition, and after a few aggravating minutes of the operator asking every question under the sun, he hung up. With his free hand, he managed to shoot off a text to Mycroft, and then dropped his phone, cradled Sherlock's head in his hands and waited to hear the sirens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa CLIFFHANGER! Sorry to end it here, that was not planned whoops. I will be now working on more chapters to post when I get them done. Thanks for reading!


	16. Interlude: Page Six

**Page Six**

What singer reportedly overdosed at their LA home late last night and is now headed off to rehab? Sources tell us that emergency services were called late last night to this A list singer's home after they reportedly overdosed on cocaine. They stabilized the singer and then rushed them off to a hush hush super posh rehab. They've been quite the problem child lately, and sources close to the singer are dubious as whether this wakeup call will make a difference or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. I ended it here.


End file.
